Dynasty: Styne Saga, Part 3
by M.J.Ellsworth
Summary: A war is raging between hunters, demons, and the surviving members of the Styne family. The fate of the world (and Sam Winchester) hangs in the balance. Season 1 AU with a very psychic Sam! Featuring Jacob Styne, Azazel, Benny Lafitte, Commandant Eckhart, and Cuthbert Sinclair (Magnus).
1. Hitchhiker

_**Author's Note:**_ _Hi everyone! It looks like I'm starting Part 3 of my Supernatural AU where the Winchesters encounter the Stynes much earlier than on the show. I never imagined it would turn into such a lengthy fanfic, but I've been having so much fun, and I can't seem to stop. Thank you all for your support, and if you haven't read "Endangered" or "Coercion," it might be a good idea to start with them first. :-)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters. This is purely for fan enjoyment._

 **SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota … Tuesday, November 3, 2005)**

Through shuttered windows, the morning light was gentle and unobtrusive, gradually stirring Dean Winchester from a fitful sleep. He didn't remember climbing into bed, but wasn't surprised. After pushing himself well beyond the breaking point, he should have collapsed days ago, and it would take some time to regain his strength. Sad thing was, he had it easy. His younger brother, on the other hand…

Groaning, Dean sat up, planted his feet on the floor, propped his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. What a nightmare! There was no other word describing the past week and a half. Sammy was abducted (again!) by the monstrous dicks of the Styne clan (short for Frankenstein), and to save him, Dean had ventured from the midwestern states all the way to Rome, back to Atlanta, then to Purgatory (yes, _Purgatory!_ ), and finally to a pocket dimension where his enemies made their home. Each step of the journey was fraught with danger, and not everyone in the rescue party survived—Pastor Jim gave his life to protect Dean and Bobby from a vindictive reaper.

And yet, as harrowing as the adventure was, Dean's suffering hardly compared with Sam's. God knows what happened during the ten days of his confinement, but somehow, it resulted in psychic abilities, a weird obligation to one of his captors (the boy, Cyrus), and the death of his girlfriend, Jessica Moore. Twisted mind games were involved—some crazy bitch took on the appearance of their mother, Mary Winchester, and had the nerve to call Sam "sweetheart." Not to mention Jacob Styne, who called Sam "little brother" while treating him like a prized possession. Bastard.

They wanted Sam for themselves because a yellow-eyed demon named Azazel claimed he would usher in some kind of cosmic cataclysm, and the Stynes had always prospered from chaos. Just thinking about it made Dean shiver. Sam hated hunting; he wasn't prone to violence; he genuinely cared for people (even strangers!); and to top it off, he had the moral code of a saint. How could he ever in a million years be responsible for such evil?

Dean would be damned before he let it happen. No one messed with his family!

Except, Sam was under the impression that Azazel killed their mom to get to him, and the Stynes had kidnapped him twice now, hoping to adopt him into their ranks. They were still out there, and they would absolutely try again. Third time's the charm. Dean would have to be hyper-vigilant to shelter Sam from their cruelty. Poor kid. School was officially off the table, and he couldn't even attend his girlfriend's funeral! The Stynes would expect it. His dreams of a normal life were over, and Dean's heart ached for him.

A knock on the door distracted him from his thoughts, and he glanced up to find Pamela Barnes watching him. A friend of Bobby's, she had one gorgeous figure, silky black hair, piercing green eyes, and a welcoming smile. Under different circumstances…

"How's Sam?" he asked, brushing off his baser instincts.

"Miserable," she replied, closing the door behind her.

Dean scoffed. "No, really? Thanks for that. You're a credit to your kind."

Like Sam, Pamela was psychic, and Bobby had called her to help the kid cope with his new abilities. Unsurprisingly, it was overwhelming to experience the thoughts and feelings of countless other people, and Sam was struggling to adjust. The drive from Atlanta to Sioux Falls had been agonizing, all the more so because Dean was powerless to do anything about it. Damn Stynes!

"It wasn't the Stynes," Pamela said as she took a seat in the chair directly across from him. "They might have unleashed Sam's abilities, but they didn't make him psychic. He was born this way."

"No." Dean shook his head. "There was never any sign—!"

"That you're aware of," she mildly corrected him. "But here's the truth. Considering the forces at work here, I can't respect your brother's privacy and keep his secrets. You have to know. On the night your mother died, a demon entered Sam's nursery and drizzled blood in his mouth, effectively harnessing his powers for his own purposes."

"WHAT!?" Dean exploded to his feet.

"Since then, without realizing it, Sam's powers have been repressed, subject to the demon's will. Caroline Styne—the family matriarch—set him free, and did him a favor, if you want my opinion. Whatever influence the demon had is gone now, and that's a good thing. But it presents a new problem."

"Ya think?"

Pamela could not have missed the derision dripping from Dean's voice, but she patiently endured it. "Your brother's relationship with the Stynes… They didn't brainwash him in the traditional sense, but they certainly used his powers against him. For days, they treated him to their attitudes and emotions. He felt—he _shared_ —their malice, their entitlement, their arrogance, and even their perverse affection. You can't begin to imagine what that's like for a young, inexperienced psychic."

Suddenly, Dean's stomach clenched, and he broke into a sweat.

"The lines get blurred," she continued. "What distinguishes their sentiments from yours? What separates them? Sam was never trained for that! You can't blame him for his confusion. Even though the Stynes brutalized him, he nevertheless considers them authority figures, especially Jacob, and he loves that boy, Cyrus. He completely buys into his innocence. Now, I haven't met the kid, so I don't know one way or another, but Sam's abilities are powerful, and he's thoroughly convinced—which makes him a flight risk, by the way. If Jacob dangles the kid in front of him, mark my words, Sam will take the bait."

That much, Dean already knew. "I assume someone's watching him?" There were three other people in the house—Bobby Singer, Ellen Harvelle, and Rufus Turner—but they had followed Dean to hell and back, and he wouldn't be surprised if they were likewise exhausted.

Pamela nodded. "Ellen's keeping an eye on the bathroom door while he freshens up. He might be in there for awhile."

"He's alone in the bathroom?" Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. On the night before last, when they rescued Sam from the Stynes, he had been wearing a charm bracelet that magically linked him to Jacob, so when Jacob was shot in the arm and leg, Sam suffered the same injuries. Luckily, they were superficial, but Sam was still recovering. He shouldn't be on his feet.

"Dean!" Pamela cut him off before he reached the bedroom door. "How many times have you patched yourself up after a solo hunt? If you can do it, he can do it. Trust me, if you care about your brother, then remember this. The Stynes robbed him of his dignity. We have to help him get it back, and we can't do that by treating him like a feeble child."

"So, what?" Dean asked impatiently. "You want me to pretend this didn't happen, and take him hunting like nothing's wrong?"

"No, don't ignore the problem," Pamela said. "But don't suffocate him, either! He's already lost so much, and right now, he blames himself. For Jessica, for Cyrus, for Pastor Jim… And he's terrified of what the demon has planned for him. He's a breath away from despair, and he might very well spend the rest of his life floundering if you—of all people—lack faith in him. Dean… He _needs_ you to have faith in him."

Dean shifted his weight uncomfortably. Faith… Pastor Jim used that word a lot, and look where it got him. No, Dean might love and trust certain people—primarily his father—but he never put much stock in the concept of faith. He wasn't even sure he understood what it meant. Somber, he dropped his gaze to the floor. "Dad never prepared me for this."

"I get it," she told him. "And believe me, I wish I could offer an easy, simple solution. But like it or not, a storm's coming, and Sam won't be able to hide forever. You boys need to make yourselves ready. My advice? Stay calm. The calmer you are, the calmer he'll be."

She was asking a lot. His brother was being stalked by monsters and demons, and when it came to Sammy's safety, Dean could have quite the temper. He sighed, at a loss and overwhelmed. Where was dad? He promised to meet them here, and Dean could really use his help!

Pamela nodded knowingly. "Buck up, kiddo," she said, lightly tapping him on the shoulder. "There's one more thing I should mention, and you're not going to like it."

 **SPN**

Downstairs, in the spacious living room that also functioned as a library and home office, Bobby Singer wearily riffled through his collection of fake IDs. He was getting too old for this! If Dean, a strong and resilient twenty-six-year-old, could no longer stay awake, what made Bobby think he could? Hunters weren't exempt from the human need to rest, even in the midst of a crisis, and he knew all too well how sleep deprivation served as torture.

But that was the problem. As much as he wanted to, Bobby couldn't unwind. He couldn't close his eyes, he could barely keep from shaking, and now he had two psychics in the house who were bound to notice—if they hadn't already. How was he ever going to explain it? He loved those boys, and now he could honestly say he'd do anything for them.

Two pairs of footsteps on the staircase warned him of oncoming trouble, and he glanced up to watch Dean and Pamela enter the room. Sure enough, Dean was on edge with a glower that spoke volumes, and Pamela looked blatantly unapologetic. They knew, and Dean was pissed. Balls.

"What the hell, Bobby?" Dean asked with enough displeasure to wake Rufus—the old hunter had crashed on Bobby's couch, and now sat up, alert and irritable, not that Dean cared. "Pamela said you brought something back with you. Tell me you didn't let a monster out of Purgatory!"

"Don't you take that tone with me, boy!" Bobby snapped. Dean had a right to be angry, but still, he was much too young to be giving lectures. "I was up the creek without a paddle, and I made the only choice I could to survive."

"What's he talking about, Bobby?" Rufus asked with narrowed eyes. For a retired hunter, he remained as sharp and zealous as ever, and would not appreciate Bobby's judgment call anymore than Dean. But what's done is done.

Grimacing, Bobby pulled back the layered sleeves covering his left forearm to reveal the hitchhiker underneath—a radiant, reddish-gold soul clawing around beneath the skin. Damn thing hurt like the dickens, but so far, he could take it. After all, in his long life, he had suffered worse.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered at the sight. Rufus sprang to his feet while Pamela crept forward in fascination.

"It's a vampire," Bobby said. "Named Benjamin Lafitte. When we were trapped in Purgatory, I thought that reaper Bianca wanted to kill me. I took off, hoping to draw her away from you lot so you could escape, but she never attacked me."

"Right," Dean said shakily. "Cause she's a reaper, not a killer. She wanted some monster to do her dirty work first, and then she'd reap you after."

"Makes sense," Bobby agreed. "By the time I figured it out, I was miles away with dozens of monsters on my ass. Benny saved me. Said he could help me escape by leading me to a portal designed specifically for humans—if I promised to smuggle him out with me. Naturally, I refused. He's a vampire, for God's sake! But he must have been following me the whole time. He heard us talking about Sam. Said he'd help us rescue him, and I thought… Hell, the Stynes are dangerous bastards. Having a vampire on our side might prove useful."

Rufus scoffed. "Are you kidding me!? You can't trust him, Bobby! You know that!"

Bobby shrugged. "Desperate times. John Winchester teamed up with Doc Benton last year, and despite their history, they played well together. At least Benny's got no reason to hate us. Anyway, the portal dumped me out in the middle of Maine. I only flew home so I could safely dispose of Torvald's talisman before flying down to Louisiana to resurrect Benny. No sense juggling two freaks at once. Then we were gonna hightail it back to Atlanta and figure out our next move, but thankfully, you got here first."

(Torvald was a Nazi necromancer with a connection to the Styne family. When Sam was kidnapped over a week ago, Bobby and Dean were desperate to find him, so they stole a supernatural talisman from the Nazi to conjure a spirit with inside information. Monroe Styne himself, Jacob's father. Of course, that was bound to backfire—spirits did not like subjugation, and Monroe was no exception. He _hated_ Bobby and was responsible for sending Bianca after him—which was how they ended up in Purgatory. Damn reaper.)

"You can't keep doing this, Bobby," Rufus moaned. "You can't keep trying to exploit things that'll turn around and bite you—in this case, literally!"

"I'm not an idiot, Rufus! I safely destroyed the talisman. Monroe's gone. But his family's still out there, including Jacob, and we need all the help we can get. The vampire's worth the risk."

"Why don't I be the judge of that?" Pamela interjected, as fearless as ever. She spent quite a bit of her time delving into the spirit world; she was adept at reading souls, and if Bobby knew her at all, she wasn't bothered by supernatural predators. They were like animals, driven by hunger and the need to survive. Definitely dangerous, but not as depraved as demons or psychopaths. If Bobby had to wager, he'd bet that she had encountered far more offensive creatures than vampires over the years.

"Whoa, Pamela!" Dean started in surprise when he realized what she had in mind. "Are you sure about this?"

She smiled appreciatively. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart. I'm what you'd call experienced." Then, with a suggestive wink, she added, "In more ways than one." For the first time in a long time, Dean's expression softened, and Bobby wondered why they didn't call her days ago.

Crossing the rest of the way over to him, Pamela scrutinized his glowing arm. Bobby could see the light reflecting in her eyes. "Hello, Mr. Lafitte," she said quietly, and the painful contortions beneath his skin began ebbing in response. The vampire was nothing if not polite. Ever so slowly, Pamela reached out and touched the undead soul. Immediately, she stiffened, gasping at the intensity, and Dean would have dragged her away from what he perceived as a threat, but she waved him back. Bobby knew such discomfort was par for the course.

After a few minutes of psychic exertion, Pamela cocked her head. "Really? What was her name?" She listened, and soon enough, reached her verdict. She withdrew her hand, stumbling backwards, and Dean steadied her while Bobby pulled down his sleeves, covering his arm once more.

Pamela chuckled. "Well, now I've seen everything. This vampire's more introspective than your average human, and he was killed by his own nest because he deserted them in favor of a woman. Damn, Bobby, you know how to pick 'em."

"That's ridiculous!" Rufus protested, and despite everything, Bobby was prone to agree. A vampire in love with a human? Never in a million years!

Pamela shrugged. "He wasn't lying, and he doesn't mean us any harm. He drinks blood from transfusion bags, not from people, and if you want his help against the Stynes, or that demon, or any other monster, he'd be happy to offer his expertise. Anything to make the last few decades in Purgatory worth the constant warfare."

Bobby glanced at Dean and Rufus. His mind was already made up, but he could tell neither of them liked it, not that he could blame them. "Trust me. I'll keep the bloodsucker on a tight leash, and when this is over, if you still want to send him back, I'll do it myself. But right now, I'm heading to Louisiana, and don't try to stop me."

"What's in Louisiana?" Dean asked.

"Benny's grave."

Dean nodded in exasperation. "Of course it is. Cause that's just what we need—another monster with a southern drawl." Jacob Styne was raised in Shreveport, and from what Bobby understood, he had a noticeable accent. Unfortunately, so did the vampire, and Sam might struggle to cope with the sound of his voice.

"All things considered, you boys should stay here," Bobby said. "Wait for your daddy."

"I guess that means I'm coming with you, then," Rufus quickly decided. "You sure as hell ain't going by yourself."

"Fine," Bobby agreed. He wouldn't mind the back-up, especially in the Stynes' neck of the woods. Just because the family had taken refuge in Atlanta didn't mean they lost control of the Bayou, and they'd be eager to meet friends of the Winchesters. As far as Bobby knew, they weren't aware of his identity, but one could never be too careful—hence the need for fake IDs.

"This is crazy," Dean complained, pressing his hands against his head, obviously overwhelmed.

"This is war," Bobby replied. "And your brother… He's hanging in the balance. If we're going to win, we can't afford to play it safe." Dean grimaced, but Bobby knew he made his point. Sam had real evil after him, and with their luck, things were gonna get worse before they got better. Something had to be done—for the kid's sake, and maybe even the world's.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review! Your comments are greatly appreciated and help motivate me to write faster. I always look forward to hearing from you! :-)**_


	2. Aftermath

_**Author's Note:**_ _Hey everyone! I'm sorry if this chapter's a little repetitive, but I'm coming up with some crazy plans for this fic, and I don't want to rush through the exposition. Please bear with me, and enjoy all the Sam angst! :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota … Tuesday, November 3, 2005)**

Sam did not mean to spend more than an hour in Bobby's spare bathroom. He certainly didn't need more than an hour to freshen up, even with his injuries slowing him down, but he liked the privacy. When he was in the Stynes' custody, Caroline (the family matriarch) personally saw to his hygiene, and the experience had been horrifying. Everything about the last week and a half was horrifying, and now it seemed etched in his memory, threatening to haunt him forever. Tears filled his eyes, and he crumbled to the ground, pressing his back against the door—he didn't want Dean or any of the others to see him like this.

Jessica was gone, just like his premonitions warned him, stabbed to death in a lonely courtyard beneath the marble statue of a two-headed bird. Sam was helpless to save her, and the grief nearly killed him. His heart was pounding, he couldn't keep from shaking, and he desperately wanted to scream. But if he screamed, Jacob might find him, and he couldn't let Jacob find him. Not yet. He wasn't ready to face his brother's temper, and he had no doubt Jacob would be pissed at him for running away. After all, the rule is, you don't walk out on family.

"No," Sam whispered, clenching his fists. The Stynes were _not_ his family, and Jacob was _not_ his brother! Why was that so hard to remember? The Stynes were murdering assholes, and he wanted nothing to do with them! Except for Cyrus, the little boy who helped Sam cope with his abduction. The kid was only seven years old, but he knew the difference between right and wrong, and more importantly, he cared about it. He didn't want to grow up like his family, he didn't want to become a villain, and Sam had promised not to escape without him. He had _promised_. He should have known better; his dad was too prejudiced against anything remotely supernatural to give a damn. They left Cyrus behind, and the guilt was suffocating.

Sam wasn't sure how long he sat there wallowing in his misery—it felt like ages—but eventually he heard footsteps approaching the door, and he recognized the gait. Dean. His brother, his _real_ brother, and currently his warden. Much like their dad, Dean was skeptical about Cyrus, and he would sooner lock Sam in a closet than let him risk everything by going back to rescue the boy. He meant well, but he could be painfully hypocritical, and Sam didn't want to talk to him.

If only he could block out his emotions. Dean was trying very hard to hold it all together, but he was scared, angry and confused. He wanted to help Sam, but they were both adrift in uncharted waters, and he was at a loss. How could Sam ignore him?

Sure enough, he knocked gently, and Sam quickly got up and wiped his eyes. It didn't do much good—his reflection in the mirror remained pathetic—and he could easily imagine how much Jacob would relish his defeat. He might be fond of Sam, but he was the kind of bastard who expressed his affection through abuse.

"Sammy?"

Wait, that was Dean's voice. Sam glanced at the door, still trembling, and tried to calm his nerves. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Sammy," Dean tried again, with surprising compassion. "You hungry? There's breakfast downstairs."

"I'm fine," Sam assured him, leaning against the sink. Honestly, he could use the nourishment, but he didn't have the slightest appetite. During his captivity, the Stynes compelled him to eat by threatening to force-feed him, but they weren't here, and Dean wasn't that aggressive. Was he?

After a brief hesitation, his brother said, "Look, Sam, I know it sucks right now, but you can't stay cooped up in the bathroom. Come on downstairs. Bobby and his friend, Rufus, have an errand to run that might take a few days, and Jo wants Ellen home as soon as possible. They're on their way out, so why don't you come say goodbye?"

It was a fair request. Bobby, Rufus, and Ellen were three of his rescuers, and Sam owed them all a huge debt. He didn't blame them for Cyrus—at the time, they weren't even aware of the kid's existence. He should thank them, and he should apologize for putting their lives in danger. He didn't mean to burden anyone.

Taking a deep breath, Sam trudged from the sink back to the door, but despite everything, he couldn't bring himself to open it. He wasn't ready. His powers gave him headaches, and he didn't want to feel their pity. Or their scorn. Cowering, he turned away. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm just… I'm so sorry."

 **SPN**

Son of a bitch… Dean hated it when Sam felt responsible for crap he didn't cause. This wasn't his fault! With a backward glance at Ellen, who shook her head sympathetically, Dean tried the doorknob. It was locked—why was he not surprised?

"Come on, Sammy," he muttered to himself, resisting the urge to kick it open. Pamela warned him to stay calm—his brother was officially a psychic, and right now, he didn't need the extra emotional turbulence. But seriously! Dean was on the verge of erupting, and no way in hell could he stay calm. Not after everything that happened in Atlanta. He wanted to kill something—preferably Jacob or that demon.

"Baby steps, Dean," Ellen said softly. "He's not gonna recover overnight. He can't." Something about her voice brought back memories of his early childhood—of his mom—who was already on his mind thanks to that Styne lady's malicious disguise. It wasn't fair. Sam didn't have any memories of their mom to hold onto, which meant their family photos were now tarnished—Mary Winchester's face would only remind him of his captors. How could they do that to him? How could they be that cruel?

"Are you sure you have to leave, Ellen?" he asked wretchedly.

"Mmm…" She nodded. "After everything that's happened… After Jessica… I need to see my daughter again. I've been away from the Roadhouse for too long. But Pamela's still here, and your dad should be on his way. You boys won't be alone."

 **SPN**

When Sam finally emerged from the bathroom, it was late in the afternoon, and the sun was sinking in the west. Dean and Pamela sat across from each other with a nightstand between them, where they played cards while nursing beers. Of course, Pamela had an unfair advantage, but Dean wasn't that engaged to begin with. At the sight of his brother, he held out an unopened bottle, which Sam wordlessly accepted before parking on the bed.

Dean glanced at Pamela, hoping she might break the heavy silence. After all, she was the expert psychic. Shouldn't she be taking charge? But no, she rolled her eyes at him and shook her head. She motioned for him to get on with it, but what could he possibly say? Tensely, he turned to give his brother a once-over, as always amazed—and concerned—by how little he had grown into his height. For someone so tall, he still looked like a teenager.

As if reading his mind—no, _definitely_ reading his mind—Sam flushed and tried not to fidget while removing the beer cap. "So…" he said, if only to change the subject. "Bobby's out running an errand?"

"Yeah," Dean acknowledged, wondering how much he needed to elaborate. After all, Sam had enough to worry about without adding vampires to the mix.

"Vampires!?" Sam asked in alarm, making Dean wince. Damn it!

Pamela did her best not to laugh, but she couldn't hide her amusement. "Don't worry, Dean," she said after checking herself. "You'll learn to block your thoughts. I can teach you a few exercises to get you started." Then, she focused on Sam. "And as for you, mister, it's high time you put the reigns on your abilities, or else you'll get yourself trampled."

Sam, however, wouldn't be sidetracked. "What vampires!?"

"Just one," she steadily assured him. "But it's a long story, and probably best for Dean to start at the beginning."

Dean's stomach clenched. "Me?" When Sam turned to look at him, his expression was so forlorn that Dean froze, at a loss for words. Suddenly, he just wanted to scoop his brother up and magically make things better—but they were too old for that, and Pamela advised against treating Sam like a child. So instead, he looked back at them stupidly with a blank mind.

"Come on, Dean," Pamela prompted. "Start with how you woke up in that motel bathroom the night Sam was taken, and go from there. Don't leave anything out."

It was a demanding request, but Dean haltingly complied—and once he began, he couldn't stop. On Thursday, October 22, five members of the Styne family (including Jacob) ambushed the brothers in their motel room. After a short fight, they chloroformed Dean and left him in the bathtub. By the time he woke up, they had kidnapped Sam, and were gone without a trace. Dean called John and Bobby for help, but John was too far away. He would conduct his own investigation, and ordered Dean to wait for Bobby and follow his lead.

Together, Dean and Bobby met up with Rabbi Isaac Bass from the Judah Initiative, a secret organization that fought the Nazis during the second world war. Because the Winchesters were all legacies—heirs to another organization called the Men of Letters—they were natural allies with the Judah Initiative, and Rabbi Bass was eager to help. He explained how Herman Styne taught necromancy to the Nazi Commandant Eckhart, leader of the Thule Society, which made the Stynes their common enemy.

Over time, Eckhart and his goons became proficient spellcasters, able to retain their youth indefinitely. After the war, they disappeared into the shadows, keeping a low profile while waiting for opportunities to pick up where they left off and achieve world domination. What else? As it turned out, Rabbi Bass was being followed by Torvald, one of Eckhart's closest confidants, who possessed a special necromantic talisman that could conjure and control ghosts and spirits.

Desperate for answers, Dean and Bobby trapped the Nazi bastard and summoned Monroe, who reluctantly informed them about the Stynes' safe house in the pocket dimension between realities. To access it, they had to perform an entry spell using an ancient obsidian mirror that was consecrated with infant blood at midnight near the temple ruins of the god, Janus, in Rome. That's why it took so long to mount a rescue—the 'key' was nearly impossible to forge!

But forge it they did, and shortly thereafter, they teamed up with Ellen, Special Agent Victor Henriksen, Special Agent Nathan Findley, Rufus Turner, Pastor Jim and Caleb. They ventured into Buckhead, a wealthy neighborhood down in Atlanta, where they finally opened the portal, only to be derailed by a reaper named Bianca who dragged them into Purgatory.

Dean took a deep breath. "Here's where it gets complicated. You know how the Stynes are reincarnated after they die? Well, Bianca's the bitch who allows it. She has a taste for the Men of Letters' legacies—namely us—and when the Stynes sacrifice us in their reincarnation ritual, she apparently eats our souls. Then, she returns the favor by bringing dead Stynes back to life."

Sam looked sick. Technically, he didn't have to worry about being sacrificed. According to the demon, and verified by Elizabeth Styne (the family fortune-teller), he was too contaminated for the ritual. Still, he didn't appreciate the threat to John and Dean.

"Because they have such a good working relationship," Dean went on, "Monroe asked Bianca to help him. She agreed. Tried to punish Bobby for exploiting Monroe. Naturally, Bobby used himself as bait to lead her away from the rest of us so we could focus on our rescue mission. That's when he met a vampire named Benny."

"What's a vampire doing in Purgatory?" Sam asked.

"Oh, yeah! I almost forgot. Apparently, Purgatory is where monsters go when they die, and everything we thought we knew of the place is simply a misconception."

Sam blinked, shaking his head in bewilderment. Then, he buried his face in his free hand and listened to the rest of the story in mounting agitation. Dean quickly described Bobby's agreement with the vampire—how they escaped Purgatory together and were planning to join forces against the Stynes. Pamela interjected to reiterate how the monster could be trusted, but Sam didn't seem convinced.

"Meanwhile," Dean summed up, "Pastor Jim, he, um… He didn't make it…" Sam held back an anguished sob. "And he attracted a different reaper named Tessa, who didn't approve of Bianca's actions. Next thing I know, they're fighting each other, and then, suddenly, they're gone. Just like that. The rest of us regrouped at the portal and finally found our way to the Stynes' pocket dimension where we rescued you. End of story."

Except, the story was far from over, and Dean knew it. Their enemies were still at large, and Sam had yet to recount his own ordeal. At some point, John would demand to hear each and every detail—but Dean wasn't their father, and the last thing Sam needed was an interrogation. The kid was traumatized! How could anyone force him to relive that experience?

Slowly, and obviously deep in thought, Sam took a sip of his beer. Dean noticed him wavering and suspected it was all he could do not to drop the bottle. After a moment, he nervously asked, "So now what? Bobby's going on a killing spree with a vampire?"

"Hunting spree," Dean gently modified.

"And they're gonna kill Cyrus too?"

Dean grimaced. He should have seen this coming, and didn't have to be psychic to know it would lead to an argument. Better get it out of the way before John arrived to make it worse. "Look, Sam… I can easily call up Bobby and tell him to spare the kid, but you've got to give me a reason. Why do you trust him?"

Sam stared sullenly at the floor. "Because he's innocent. He never had a past life, Dean. The Stynes won't always be able to sacrifice legacies for their reincarnation ritual, but they can still have children. Their family history won't be on repeat anymore; it will finally be linear, and their children will be 'new.' It's already started with Jacob and Cyrus; they're both new. And Cyrus… He's a good kid. He loathes his family, and I promised to help him."

Dean had to admit, Sam made a compelling case. The kid was only seven years old! As far as they knew, he was still a normal human, which made him guilty of nothing but association, and they couldn't kill him for that. Damn… Why must everything be so difficult? "Okay… I hear you, Sam, and I'll spread the word. But listen to me. You are not obligated to help him. He's not your responsibility."

Sam shook his head. "We're not obligated to help anyone, Dean, but we still do—all the time. It's how we were raised."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because those are normal hunts!" Dean exclaimed, trying to stay patient. "They're not personal. Sam… Jacob's not giving up on you, and he knows how to play you. He did it with Jessica, and he'll do it again with Cyrus." Sam blinked back tears at the mention of his girlfriend, but he had to know the stakes. "I'm sorry, but it's too dangerous."

"Jessica's gone," Sam whispered brokenly. "And if I can't help Cyrus, then what good am I?"

Dean groaned, ducking his head in frustration. "Come on, Sammy. It doesn't work that way."

"Yes it does!" Sam insisted. "Because Cyrus and I… We're the same. We're both drowning in all this evil, desperate to keep our heads above the water, and it's not fair. He deserves a lifeline as much as I do. Maybe even more."

"Please, Sam," Dean replied, practically begging. "Be smart about this."

"Your brother's right, kiddo," Pamela said, much to Dean's relief. "Think about your own words. No one expects a drowning man to rescue a drowning boy. That's just common sense. You're not any good to Cyrus if the Stynes recapture you, so your best option is to trust Bobby and let him handle it."

Sam hesitated. "You think he'd do that for me?"

"Oh, in a heartbeat," Pamela assured him. "He's already willing to let a vampire out into the world, so why wouldn't he help Cyrus? But _you_ need to concentrate on recuperating. I know you weren't technically shot, but your arm and leg say otherwise. You're not even close to fighting condition, especially with your abilities running wild, and you're not leaving this house till I clear you, understand?"

Sam nodded, averting his eyes, but Dean knew his brother well enough to doubt his concession. He was just telling them what they wanted to hear, but he wasn't about to drop the matter. He cared too much for Cyrus to trust him with anyone—even Bobby. Dean would have to keep him under close observation, which really sucked, cause he didn't want Sam to feel like a prisoner. Damn Stynes!

"Now then," Pamela continued. "It's time for dinner. Who wants mac and cheese?"

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	3. Goodbye

_**Author's Note:**_ _It always takes me longer to write the emotional chapters. I hope I do them justice!_

 **SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota … Tuesday, November 3, 2005)**

It was almost midnight when Dean heard the unmistakable and welcome sound of his father's 1986 Sierra Grande pulling up to the house. Finally! Sam was already in bed, exhausted from grief, and Pamela had taken refuge in Bobby's room to meditate or some psychic thing like that. Dean had been dozing on the couch in the library, but now he sat up straight and listened, just to be sure.

No doubt about it; that was John's truck. But was it John? After rescuing Sam, he and Caleb had remained in Atlanta while the others fled because he feared the truck might be under demonic surveillance. He couldn't just abandon it; he depended on his journal and all his equipment. But he didn't want to expose his children to more danger, so they agreed to part company. That was nearly forty-five hours ago, and they hadn't heard from him or Caleb since—despite leaving multiple voicemails urging him to call. So, did that mean John was presently behind the wheel? Or could it be a demon?

Better safe than sorry, Dean retrieved a flask of holy water from Bobby's desk and checked his pistol. The Impala was parked out front, so John—or whoever it was—had to know they were here. He wouldn't try sneaking inside or he might raise suspicions—if he wasn't taken down by one of Bobby's notorious security measures (i.e. booby traps). And sure enough, within minutes Dean heard a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" he called out warily.

"Dean, it's me," his father replied. "Open up." His voice was clear and composed, and would have put the young hunter at ease if he wasn't so paranoid.

Slowly, methodically, Dean unlocked the door. Then, in one fluid motion, he yanked it open and splashed water in John's face. No reaction. No sizzling steam, no cursing, no shrieking; nothing but his dad staring back at him in mild annoyance. Dean smiled apologetically. "Oops."

John rolled his eyes. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah." Dean stood out of the way, allowing John to enter, before closing and locking the door. "Where's Caleb?"

"Returned home to Lincoln," John said. "Now where's Sam?"

"Asleep. Upstairs." Dean decided not to rile the old man by volunteering information on Bobby's whereabouts—at least not yet. If John at least listened to his voicemails, he would know that Bobby somehow escaped Purgatory, but he didn't need to worry about a vampire when they had bigger problems. At the moment, Sam was their top priority. "He spent most of the day hiding in the bathroom. There's, um… There's something about him you need to know."

John heard the tension in his voice and sighed, wiping his mouth. They proceeded into the library, where they sat around Bobby's desk. Dean quietly relayed everything Pamela told him about Sam's condition—how he was born a psychic, how a demon bled in his mouth on the night of the fire, how the Stynes unleashed his abilities, and how they used those abilities to cloud his judgment. Finally, he explained why Sam was so preoccupied with Cyrus.

"I'm starting to think, if we can't get that kid away from his family, Sam will never forgive us. And he'll never forgive himself."

John grunted, carefully processing Dean's report. With nothing left to say, Dean watched him in silent dread. He didn't like the old man's posture. Obviously, he wasn't expecting John to be happy about their situation, but he was responding more like a hunter than a father, diving straight into business, and Dean recognized the signs. He knew what they meant.

"You boys can't stay here," John eventually said, exactly as Dean predicted. "Too many hunters know of our relationship with Bobby, and the Stynes just need one of them to talk. They'll find us here. It's only a matter of time." Dean knew better than to argue, but John must have seen the apprehension on his face. "Is Sam fit to travel?"

"Not according to Bobby's psychic friend, Pamela Barnes." Dean shrugged. "His physical injuries are minor, all things considered, but mentally, emotionally, psychically—whatever you wanna call it—he's not doing well. I've never seen him so messed up."

John nodded. "After what he's lost, I can't say I'm surprised. But he's safest on the road. I'll text you some coordinates, and I want you to head out first thing in the morning. Make sure you pack those hex bags to conceal you from the Stynes' locator spells, and check the Impala regularly for tracking devices. Let's not repeat our mistakes."

"Yes sir," Dean said dutifully while feeling a lump in his throat. "You're not coming with us." It wasn't a question; he already knew the answer.

John bowed his head. "I'm sorry." It took him half a minute to collect himself; then he resolutely met Dean's gaze. "I've got work to do. I'm not gonna wait for any of the Stynes, or that demon, to catch up to Sammy. I'm taking the fight to them. And I need you as far away as possible, watching out for your brother. Understand?"

"Yes sir," Dean lied, too obedient to speak his mind. Truthfully, he thought they were stronger as a family—splitting up never did them any good. But then again, it wasn't wise to second-guess John Winchester, and as much as he wanted to follow his dad into battle, who else would protect Sam? "Listen… You should call Bobby. He's ready to help, and believe me, he's got one hell of a card up his sleeve." No pun intended.

"I will," John promised. Standing, he clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Now, if I were to check on Sam, would I disturb his rest?"

"Not likely," Dean assured him. The kid was typically a light sleeper, but every so often, the weight of their hard lives drove him into near hibernation. "He crashed pretty hard. I think Pamela gave him some Benadryl, or something."

Barely acknowledging his last remark, John made for the stairs. Bobby owned a modest-sized house, so it wouldn't take him long to find Sam, but Dean followed, just in case. They climbed up to the second floor and snuck into the first guestroom; Dean lingered by the door while John approached the bed.

Sam was lying on top of the covers, on his back—too sore for any other position. He was still in his clothes, making it impossible for their dad to inspect his arm or leg without waking him, but John had taught Dean everything he knew about treating injuries, and by now, they were both confident in his technique. Physically, they had no doubt Sam would be fine.

With his head turned to the side, Sam was sleeping soundly. No dreams for once—at least not yet. Perhaps Pamela was shielding him. Either way, Dean didn't look forward to their inevitable return. After his first abduction over a year ago, Sam's nightmares had been nerve-racking enough, and that was before anyone got hurt. After this? Hell, it was going to be so much worse.

John stood over the bed for a long time, silently regarding his youngest son. Through the shadows, it was difficult gauging his expression, but Dean perceived his concern. Even if they dealt with the Stynes, killed the demon, and put all this behind them, Sam had lost someone he loved. He was devastated, and a part of him would never heal. He would never be the same, and Dean hated it. He would give anything for his brother to have back his youthful innocence.

Eventually, John leaned down to whisper something in Sam's ear. The kid stirred, but didn't wake, and John gently kissed his forehead. Then, he straightened back up and retreated to the hall. With Dean behind him, he returned to the library, where he groaned—the past week and a half had taken its toll on him as well.

"Dad," Dean said after a pause. John turned to look at him. "I… I don't know if I can do this without you." He stared at the floor, grappling with his embarrassment. "What if I don't have what Sam needs? What if I just make things worse?"

Thankfully, John didn't seem too shocked by the disquieting questions. He crossed over to Dean and promptly hugged him—it was the second time in two days. After all, they had already lost Jessica and Pastor Jim. They almost lost Sam and Bobby. Now, they were splitting up—indefinitely—and God only knew if they'd ever see each other again. How determined were the Stynes to sacrifice John and Dean? Were they still worth the trouble? What if Jacob decided to screw the ritual and kill them on sight for rescuing Sam? If anything happened to his father, Dean wasn't sure how he'd survive.

"Trust your instincts," John finally told him. "Your brother loves you, Dean. You just have to be there for him, and take it slowly. One day at a time."

 **SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota … Wednesday, November 4, 2005)**

Hours later, with the sun rising in the east, Dean finished packing the Impala. Since they never really had a chance to make themselves at home, it was a quick and easy process—which meant they could hit the road shortly after breakfast, if Pamela didn't stop them.

Presently, she stood five feet away with her arms crossed and an irritated scowl tarnishing her face. "Sam's not ready for this!"

"Doesn't matter," Dean replied, swinging the back door shut. "We have to stay one or two steps ahead of the Stynes. If possible, a dozen steps. Can't do that here. They'll catch up." He spared her an appreciative glance. "Look, I know you're worried, and that means a lot, but what do you think Jacob will do to you if he finds you helping us? Cause I can guarantee he won't just let you go."

"It's nice of you to worry, but I'm a big girl," Pamela pointed out. "And you boys need me."

"Well," Dean said, squaring off with her. "Dad's sending us to the middle of nowhere, Colorado. You're welcome to tag along."

"Mmm, tempting. Unfortunately, I have a life of my own, and I can't just drop everything to go on a spontaneous road trip with two young hunters, no matter how cute they are."

Dean smiled. "It might be fun."

"You don't believe that for a second," she casually observed, which Dean couldn't deny. He took a deep breath and turned his gaze toward the salvage yard. He didn't want to leave. He was accustomed to a nomadic lifestyle, but this place had always been a refuge, which they could use now more than ever.

Pamela nodded knowingly. "If you're so adamant about following your dad's orders, at least take a brief detour to stop by my house. I'll loan you a book that can help discipline your mind, so you can block your thoughts from Sam. And don't give me that crap about hating to read. You're a hunter, and research is part of the job. So do your homework."

"Yes ma'am."

"I've got some books for him as well. And a fire agate necklace." She rolled her eyes at Dean's blatant confusion. "It's a gemstone. It restores vitality, repels negative energy, and provides grounding. For someone like Sam, who's been threatened by fire in ways you can't imagine, it will offer the reassurance that such a destructive, devouring element can still be channeled for warmth and light. Believe me, it will help."

Dean shrugged. "If you say so." Truthfully, at this point, he'd take anything that might offer Sam even the slightest relief. As he headed back to the house, Pamela matched his stride.

"I want him meditating every day. He needs to learn balance and control, or his abilities will do more harm than good."

"They're already doing more harm than good."

"I know," she bluntly replied. "I told you, Sam's not ready. But you've already made up your mind, so there's nothing else I can do. Try to avoid large crowds, at least for the next few days. Your brother's strong, but he still needs time to adjust."

"Obviously."

They entered the main hall and proceeded to the kitchen, where they found Sam shakily pouring himself coffee. It took everything Dean had to keep from rushing to his assistance. "You might wanna eat something with that. We're only staying for breakfast."

Sam glanced up in surprise. "What?" His alarm made Dean backpedal—almost to the point of reconsidering their departure.

"Dad was here last night." He noticed how Sam's shoulders tensed at the mention of the old man. "Don't worry. He already left to rendezvous with Bobby and Rufus. At least, that's where I hope he's going. But he warned us against holing up in one place. We can't make it that easy for the Stynes to find us, so we're heading out to Colorado." Pamela coughed, prompting Dean to add, "After we swing by her place for some extra resources."

For a single moment, Sam looked ready to object. But then his shoulders sagged, and he sighed in defeat. "Whatever." He limped over to the table and sat down, not bothering to scavenge for food. No surprise there. Dean grimaced, especially at Pamela's pointed look of 'I told you so.' This was shaping out to be another long and painful day.

 **SPN**

Since Bobby had been travelling for over a week, his pantry had little to offer. Luckily, Dean found some Eggo Waffles in the freezer, which he toasted and served plain—much to Pamela's disgust. Sam, however, managed to stomach his portion after picking at it for twenty minutes, and that was all Dean cared about.

Once their plates were in the sink, he shuffled Sam to the bathroom, where he cleaned the two injuries and applied fresh bandages. Sam barely said a word, avoiding eye contact, but at least he cooperated—they couldn't afford a repeat of yesterday.

Satisfied, Dean led the way outside. He locked up the front door with Bobby's spare key and agreed to follow Pamela to her house.

"Don't get lost," she warned him before marching to her car. Dean had to admit, he liked her temperament as much as her figure, and despite everything, he took a moment to watch her go. Meanwhile, Sam trudged over to the passenger side of the Impala and was about to duck in when he stopped short, catching his breath.

Ever attuned to his brother's morale, which was plummeting by the hour, Dean quickly snapped to attention. Sam had retrieved something from his seat and was staring at it anxiously. From his vantage point, Dean couldn't tell what it was, and frowned, trying to recollect what he might have dropped there. Nothing significant. Maybe a few candy wrappers?

"What's wrong?" he asked, walking up behind the kid. Sam showed him an old three-ring journal with a leather cover, and he froze at the sight. It was their dad's. "What the hell, man? He never goes anywhere without that thing."

"I know."

Dean peered inside the car, wondering if John left any of his other treasures. Sure enough, piled on the seat was a familiar, well-worn leather jacket. Dean grabbed it and considered the implications. None of them were reassuring. "I don't get it."

Sam was equally disturbed. "What did he say last night?"

Dean shrugged. "You know, the… the usual crap. That he's got work to do, that he's taking the fight to the Stynes, and he needs us as far away as possible so he can…" So he can be more reckless.

Sam recoiled, no doubt reaching the same conclusion—or reading Dean's mind. "Do you think he's coming back?" Regardless of their constant bickering, Sam still loved his father, and Dean could tell he was scared.

"Yeah. He always comes back."

But then, why would he leave behind his two most prized possessions? What could he be trying to communicate except goodbye?

Unaware of this new complication, Pamela honked her horn impatiently, urging them to get a move on it. The brothers traded looks, but obediently climbed in the Impala. They had a long drive ahead of them, and could keep pondering along the way.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	4. Hatred

_**Author's Note:**_ _So I had an awesome conversation with_ _ **Souless666**_ _about why John left the boys, and I thought I'd share my purpose behind that. One thing I always loved about Supernatural, from the very beginning, was the family theme. In the first season, we're following these two brothers who are basically alone in the world as they desperately search for their dad. There's so much depth involved. I mean, Dean comes across as strong and independent, but in episodes like "Phantom Traveler" and "Home," there's no mistaking how much he needs his father. (John's voicemail at the end of "Phantom Traveler" gets me every time!) And then, as much as Sam resents the way John treats him like a child, he still regrets how much they argue, and at the end of "Bugs," he tells Dean that he wants to apologize. Finally, there's John, who seems obsessed and tyrannical, but it's hard enough being a single parent without having to deal with the supernatural, and he tells Azazel right before his death that he knows about Sam and the other psychics. He's known for awhile. He's just doing the best he can to protect his children, and it's such a profound dynamic that I didn't want to exclude it from my fic—especially since I started writing this whole saga to juxtapose the Winchester family and the Styne family. I have no idea if I'm succeeding, but that's my goal. :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(San Francisco, California … Thursday, November 5, 2005)**

Alone in a cramped office with a metal desk, four filing cabinets, and minimalist decor, Special Agent Victor Henriksen listened to the incessant ticking of a clock on the wall. Overhead, the glaring fluorescent lights did nothing for his migraine, and he was inclined to shut them off. It wouldn't be his first time sitting in the dark, and it might even help him process the past two weeks.

On Wednesday, October 21, Elizabeth Styne and her cousin Jacob Styne each broke out of their respective prisons.

On Thursday, October 22, Jacob and his relatives kidnapped Sam Winchester for God knows what. Some kind of calamity to wipe out civilization as they knew it.

On Friday, October 23, they received a tip from Dean Winchester that the Stynes owned a supernatural safe house in Atlanta, Georgia. While Henriksen and two of his colleagues (Special Agents Calvin Reidy and Nathan Findley) scoped out the area, their remaining teammates (Special Agents Joel Paulson, Brian Hale, and Connor Burckle) took Jessica Moore into protective custody. Since she was Sam's girlfriend, Dean feared the Stynes might target her to manipulate his brother.

On Monday, October 26, Henriksen, Reidy and Findley learned how the Stynes were busy planning a wedding for Elizabeth and her cousin, Victor.

On Tuesday, October 27, the Stynes realized they were under federal surveillance, and Jacob retaliated by executing Reidy. Henriksen's partner. His best friend.

On Wednesday, October 28, the Stynes slaughtered Paulson, Hale and Burckle so they could kidnap Jessica from the Meadowlark Hotel in Omaha. Five other civilians were killed, and twenty-four injured. Witnesses claimed to see a bunch of zombies wreaking havoc in the lobby and by each of the entrances, and no explanation was ever offered. It made no sense—at least not to the general public. Henriksen knew the Stynes were descended from the legendary Victor Frankenstein, and those zombies were simply reanimated corpses—the family's attack dogs.

On Saturday morning, October 31, Henriksen and Findley regrouped with Dean and several of his friends—Bobby Singer, Ellen Harvelle, Rufus Turner, Jim Murphy, and Caleb (no last name provided). Despite direct orders to report to Steven Groves in DC for an inquiry regarding the incident in Omaha, they chose instead to participate in a desperate rescue mission. Absent without leave, they embarked on an interdimensional journey where they passed through Purgatory to reach the Stynes' safe house, and they had nothing to show for it except Jessica Moore's dead body.

Damn.

Now, five days later, Henriksen and Findley were in California returning the girl to her devastated parents. They had a lot to answer for, and if they weren't careful, they could lose their jobs—or worse. Elizabeth and Jacob Styne were both wanted fugitives, and they remained at large. Someone had to pay for the collateral damage, and Henriksen would make one hell of a scapegoat.

Honestly, he didn't care. If he had to resign, so be it, and if they wanted to arrest him, he'd go on the run. Why not? The Winchesters saved more people in a single year than he had in twelve, so why bother busting his ass in the criminal justice system when he could be hunting monsters? What a waste of time.

While contemplating a life in shambles, Henriksen was startled to hear the desk phone ring. Technically, this wasn't his office; he operated out of DC, not San Francisco, and was given a place to fill out some paperwork as a courtesy, nothing more. He had already been chastised by Groves, and Findley was out in a bullpen cubicle, so why would anyone be calling him? Especially at this number?

Confused, thinking it must be a mistake, he lifted the handset. "Henriksen," he said wearily, hoping for a quick and simple exchange with no unnecessary hassles. He should be so lucky.

"Vic…? Victor…?"

He recognized the voice at once. "Jasmine?" His first wife. She left him when she became 'less important than his career,' something he always denied, but could never prove. God, he missed her—which might explain his other failed marriages. How did Jasmine know to reach him here? And more importantly, why did she sound so terrified? "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

Instead of answering, she began to cry. Henriksen felt a wave of panic, especially when her sobs faded to the background. The next thing he knew, a man was breathing heavily into the phone, and everything made perfect sense. Jasmine was being threatened, and only one bastard had the means and motivation to attack her. Shit. "Jacob?"

"What gave it away?" the sideshow freak asked with his smug southern drawl.

Henriksen shuddered. "Please. Don't hurt her." He flashed back to their last phone conversation, when Jacob murdered Reidy. It was going to happen again, to Jasmine, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Absolutely nothing. "I'm begging you; she doesn't have anything to do with this."

"Spare me your groveling," Jacob snarled. "It won't help her. You know, my daddy would have lynched her back in the day, just for the hell of it. But she has such a pretty neck, I'd hate to strangle it." He paused, as if considering his options, and Henriksen shook his head in growing despair. "I could always suffocate her. Reckon that won't leave a mark."

Jasmine's sobs turned to frantic shrieks, which were quickly stifled. Jacob must have gagged her, but not sufficiently to stop her whimpering, and Henriksen couldn't take it. "Jacob, please! Whatever you want, it's yours! Just let her go!"

Jacob scoffed. "What makes you think I don't have what I want? You helped the Winchesters kidnap my little brother."

"Cyrus?"

"No, not Cyrus. Sam."

Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap! When Jacob referred to Sam as his little brother back in the Stynes' courtyard, Henriksen thought it was a mind game to mess with the kid's head. But this was no mind game—not anymore. It sounded more like a delusion.

"Do you know what it feels like to have someone you love taken from you?" Jacob asked maliciously. "It's very frustrating, and your wife's going to suffer for it. Then, if you don't want me visiting your other women, you're going to tell me everything I need to recover Sam, starting with the names of your accomplices. And don't think you can protect them, sir. After all, you couldn't protect darling Jessica."

"Jacob, please… For the love of God…"

"It's too late for that. I warned you to back off when I killed your partner, and you didn't listen. Maybe this time you'll learn your place. Now, if it's all the same, I'd like to enjoy myself. And in the morning, we'll have another chat. If you're wise, you'll be ready to cooperate."

Chuckling, Jacob hung up his phone, ending the call.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Henriksen immediately dialed 911, despite knowing the futility of the endeavor. Jasmine was beyond saving… And it was all his fault.

 **SPN**

 **(Washington DC … Thursday, November 5, 2005)**

As a rule, Elizabeth Styne hated her family. In her past life, they dragged her away from the man she loved, Dr. Thomas Benton, and forced her to marry her cousin, Victor Frankenstein, who abused her in every sense of the word. Terrorized and heartbroken, she tried strangling herself with her own bed linens to escape the bastard, but he wouldn't tolerate such insubordination and used magic to stop her. Life as she knew it became a hellish nightmare.

Eventually, she managed to run away and found herself back in Thomas' embrace, but it was a brief reunion. Her family tracked her down and finally killed her, only sparing her beloved so he could grow old and die, wallowing in the knowledge that he'd be a decrepit corpse rotting in the ground by the time of her rebirth. Naturally, Thomas took that as a challenge and used his alchemy to achieve immortality. He spent one hundred and sixty-some-odd years waiting for her, but even then, their happiness was denied—first by John Winchester, then by Frankenstein.

Elizabeth still remembered the horrific trance that preceded her jailbreak two weeks ago. Her husband planted it in her head so she could witness him burning Thomas alive with holy fire and some kind of dark incantation. Despite his alchemy, Thomas could not withstand such magic, and his body was reduced to ash. Elizabeth had no idea how long it would take him to regenerate—if he even could.

After that, she was imprisoned along with Sam by her own family—by her own parents!—who made the cruel decision to renew her marriage to Frankenstein. They hoped an illustrious wedding would restore the Stynes' reputation among the supernatural community, since it was damaged by the Winchesters over a year ago. But happily—at least for Elizabeth—the 'event of the season' turned out to be a disaster.

Frankenstein was dead, killed by Sam himself. Elizabeth's mother, Caroline, was also dead. The Winchesters were gone, and the Stynes were more embarrassed than ever. Humiliated, actually. Elizabeth had never seen her father, William, so furious, and she was torn between laughter and apprehension.

Yes, she hated her family, and they deserved their tragic downfall, but then again… oddly enough… at this present moment, she suddenly found herself experiencing strange, conflicting emotions. Concern? Dismay? Regret?

She was standing in a derelict apartment on the wrong side of town, wearing a baby blue tea-length dress. Her hair fell in golden ringlets down her back, and her wrists were shackled in the front by magical handcuffs. Her father, the Stynes' skeletal patriarch, paced around the room with a predatory glint in his cobalt eyes. Cyrus stood in the corner like a nervous school boy. And as for Jacob… He was on the floor, straddling his victim, covering her face with an old, grimy pillow.

The poor woman had been snatched from her home and brought here for privacy. Jacob might not have a penchant for defiling people—unlike Eldon, Freddie and Frankenstein—but he was still sadistic, and after thirteen months in a federal super-max prison where he was kept in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day, he was rather touch deprived. More than anything, he craved physical contact, and he was taking his time with the former Mrs. Henriksen, smothering her, then letting her breathe, then smothering her again. He wanted to drag it out for as long as possible.

Elizabeth could not ignore the woman's muffled cries. Bound and gagged, she squirmed pathetically under Jacob's weight, bucking and kicking with all her strength—unfortunately, it wasn't enough to compete with his muscular enhancements. Elizabeth wasn't necessarily bothered by the violence of the scene—she was guilty of shedding blood herself—but she was definitely upset by Jacob's obsession with Sam. He wouldn't have been so cruel to the woman if he wasn't venting his frustration over his would-be brother's escape.

Despite their tempestuous relationship, Elizabeth cared a great deal about Jacob. He might be thirty-years-old while she was twenty-one, but her soul had seniority. She couldn't blame him for the events of the nineteenth century; he wasn't alive back then. As children, Jacob adored Elizabeth much like a sister, and for that, she was grateful. More than his father, more than his cousins, he deserved her respect and admiration… But his first allegiance was to their family while she remained loyal to Thomas, and that became a point of contention between them.

Deep down, Jacob wanted to protect and provide for Elizabeth, but he couldn't forgive her for her treachery. In his mind, she favored Thomas over him, and nothing would ever change that. So now, it seemed he was trying to replace her with Sam, and the more he tortured Henriksen's wife, the more Elizabeth understood the extent of his twisted desires.

It hurt to think he might not love her anymore. And to make matters even more confusing, she officially owed Sam a debt. The boy killed Frankenstein—permanently! He rescued her from a fate worse than death, perhaps inadvertently, but all the same. How could she possibly thank him for it? Damn… If her goals were to reconcile with Jacob, repay Sam, and reunite with Thomas, she would never win. They were simply too conflicting. What was the phrase? 'You can't have your cake and eat it too.'

Inevitably, she'd have to make a choice, and out of her three objectives, which made the most sense? Which could she hope to accomplish? Which would make her happiest?

As if there was ever any doubt.

 **SPN**

Sometimes, Cyrus wondered if hatred would make his life easier, if a stone-cold heart would shelter him from misery. He didn't know why he was so different from his family, why he was soft and compassionate when they were all ruthless and vindictive. Perhaps he could blame the books he read. After his father passed away, he discovered Lemony Snicket's _A Series of Unfortunate Events_ , and they taught him all about courage, perseverance, cleverness, and heroism—all good qualities. But were they worth pursuing?

Cyrus wouldn't turn eight until December, but he could still recognize the villainous Count Olaf in each of his guardians. After all, Jacob was in the process of murdering an innocent woman, right now, before his very eyes, and it wasn't even the first time. How could he justify that? Cyrus wanted to retch, but was too shocked to even breathe. He wouldn't be able to sleep tonight, that much was certain.

Where was Sam? Why did he have to go? He promised not to leave Cyrus behind!

"It wasn't by choice," Jacob explained back on Monday, after the wedding fiasco, as the four of them (Cyrus, Jacob, Elizabeth and Uncle William) prepared to flee Atlanta. "His father—I mean, his biological father—took him against his will, kicking and screaming. He didn't wanna leave, Cy. He was crying out for you, and John didn't care. Remember what I said about the Winchesters? They're dysfunctional. John's a controlling, oppressive tyrant, and Sammy's so accustomed to being subjugated he thinks it's normal. But don't worry. We'll rescue our brother if it's the last thing I do, and we'll help him discover true freedom—our kind of freedom—so he can thrive and fulfill his destiny."

Sam denied that his father abused him, and Cyrus had lost faith in Jacob ages ago, but something wasn't adding up. Sam promised not to abandon him, and Cyrus believed he was telling the truth. But in the end, Sam was gone, and Cyrus remained trapped with his wretched family. Why? That was the question.

Why, why, why?

Maybe Jacob had the right idea about the Winchesters. Maybe John really was a controlling, oppressive tyrant, and Sam was too naive to realize it. Maybe John was in all reality no better than Jacob—he killed their father, after all. Plus he killed Aunt Caroline, Earl, and countless others. He was a violent monster too.

Sam, on the other hand, was a good guy—genuinely nice and self-sacrificing. He was the first person Cyrus ever met who stood up to bullies, and who put the safety of others ahead of his own. He was refreshingly sympathetic, hopeful, and encouraging. He claimed that Cyrus didn't have to be evil if he didn't want to be—he could make his own decisions, and his family had nothing to do with it.

Cyrus only knew Sam for nine or ten days, but in that time, he grew devoted to the psychic. He'd do anything for him, and he missed him more than words could describe. It wasn't fair. How could John separate them against Sam's wishes? How could he be so mean?

The seven-year-old wasn't fond of hatred. He didn't enjoy how sick and dirty it made him feel. But nothing—not even Lemony Snicket—prepared him for this, and he wasn't equipped to handle it. As Jacob snuffed the life out of his latest victim, a part of Cyrus wanted to die with her, and it seemed hatred was his only coping mechanism. Consequently, against his better judgment, he found himself hating Jacob, hating John, and hating the world itself for all its suffering.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	5. Premonitions

_**Author's Note:**_ _Sorry this chapter's a little shorter than normal. I had a very busy weekend where I wasn't able to get a lot of writing done, but I still wanted to post something. Hope you enjoy it! :-)_

 **SPN**

In the early hours of the morning, well before dawn, Jo Harvelle tossed restlessly in her bed. It was too quiet. For the past year, she had been sharing her room with Jessica Moore, and wasn't used to having it back to herself. The death of her friend remained a heavy blow, and she still found it hard to close her eyes.

The more impatient she was to fall asleep, the more elusive it became, until she finally gave up. Climbing out of bed, she slipped into some jeans, tossed on a field jacket over her tank top, and clutched her father's knife. With a sad smile, she made her way out into the hall and dragged her feet toward the front of the Roadhouse. By now, their patrons would all be well on their way, either to their homes, their motels, or their hunting grounds. They knew better than to impose on Ellen's hospitality this late after closing.

Consequently, when Jo not only discovered the bar lights on, but a group of strangers busting into the liquor cabinet, she initially assumed they were wayward thieves, possibly drunk and in over their heads. "Hey!" she angrily exclaimed, too impulsive for her own good. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

But when the intruders turned to face her, she abruptly took in her mistake. While she didn't recognize the little boy or the older gentleman in the fancy professional attire, she certainly recognized Jacob and Elizabeth Styne. She had seen more than a dozen photographs of them and followed their televised trials with particular interest. Outnumbered and alone, with only a small knife to defend herself, it was all she could do to stand her ground.

"Why, hello there." Jacob stepped towards her with a vicious sneer. "Don't you look darling?"

Jo flushed, brandishing her weapon. "Get back!"

The older gentleman lazily flicked his wrist, and some kind of invisible force knocked the blade out of her hand—it sailed across the room, and before she could react, Jacob was on top of her. She shrieked as he grappled with her arms—she knew enough about the Stynes' enhanced physiology to appreciate her vulnerability. She couldn't fight them by herself.

With very little effort, Jacob twirled her around and pinned her back to his chest while planting his palm against her mouth. "Ssshhh!" He was tall enough to rest his chin comfortably on her head despite her squirming. "You wouldn't happen to be Ellen Harvelle's pretty daughter, now would you? I hope so, cause we need to make her talk, and I reckon you can help."

Jo's objections were stifled as he hauled her off her feet, carrying her to a booth across the room where someone left a black duffel on the table. His accomplice followed, winking at her while riffling through the bag for a crusty old sock. She watched in disgust as he spat on it, and when Jacob moved his hand from her lips, she clenched them shut.

"Open up," the old man teased, waving a finger at her, and the same magical force that seized her knife proceeded to pull on her jaw. She couldn't stop it, and screamed as he forcefully stuffed the sock in her mouth. The next thing she knew, they were tying her up and graphically describing all the ways they could think of enjoying her.

 **SPN**

 **(Lost Creek, Colorado … Friday, November 6, 2005)**

"NO! JACOB, PLEASE! DON'T HURT HER! JACOB! LET HER GO! PLEASE!"

Startled by his brother's panic, Dean jerked awake. He instinctively snatched a large hunting knife from beneath his pillow and took stock of his surroundings. It was too dark to see anything, but he was trained to always detect unwelcome company, and as far as he could tell, Sam was the only other person in the room—which meant he was having a nightmare. And a bad one, by the sound of it.

"Damn." Returning the knife to its former place, Dean clambered to his feet. John had given him cash to rent a cabin in the Colorado wilderness, away from dense populations, where Sam might finally have some peace and quiet. Well, so much for that. Dean irritably found the light switch and glanced over at his brother's bed. Sure enough, the kid was drenched in sweat as he tossed in his sleep.

"Sam!" Dean struggled to maintain a calm but firm tone as he stood a safe distance from the bed. Normally, he wouldn't hesitate to approach—he had plenty of experience waking Sam from nightmares—but that was before the Stynes practically brainwashed him. For the time being, it might be prudent to wait and observe how Sam responded to an interruption. "Come on, big guy, wake up! It's just a dream! Sam!"

Much to his relief, there was nothing unusual about the way Sam snapped back to consciousness. Flinching, he sat up, wide-eyed and disoriented until he caught sight of Dean; then he relaxed, taking several deep breaths while absently running a hand through his shaggy hair.

"You all right?" Dean asked, taking a seat next to him.

"No," Sam replied in a broken whisper. "Jacob found his way to the Roadhouse, and was attacking Jo." Dean might not be psychic, but he recognized the wheels turning in Sam's head, and as he processed his nightmare, the fear gradually crept back to his face. "Oh my God… Dean, I think Jacob's going to find the Roadhouse! We have to warn Jo! And Ellen, and Ash! They're in danger!"

Mistaking dreams for reality… Sam hadn't done that since he was a child. Dean sighed, hating to see his brother like this. "It's okay, Sammy. They're not in danger. Ellen covered her tracks well, and there's no way the Stynes know who she is or where she's from. They're not going to find her. You were just having a nightmare, is all." In the back of his mind, Dean acknowledged the possibility he was wrong. If John feared some random hunter might expose Bobby to the Stynes, couldn't that same hunter also expose the Harvelles? It wouldn't hurt to call the Roadhouse and urge them to remain extra vigilant, but that could wait for later in the morning. Right now, Dean didn't want to validate his brother's dream-induced misgivings.

Unfortunately, Sam wasn't reassured. If anything, he became more agitated. "You don't understand, Dean!" He jumped to his feet and started pacing like a caged animal—the iridescent, reddish-brown pendant dangling from a leather cord around his neck had no discernable effect on his nerves. Dean should have known better than to trust a stupid gemstone with his brother's well-being. In all probability, it was a useless placebo, and he would definitely be complaining about it to Pamela.

After some hesitation, Sam reluctantly turned to look in Dean's general direction without actually meeting his gaze. He crossed his arms and shrank in on himself, staring off into the distance. "This is gonna sound crazy, but… I don't think it was just a nightmare. I think it was a premonition—I had several of Jessica's death, for days before the wedding, and they came true, down to the last detail. Elizabeth even said…" He trailed off, shivering, while Dean's blood turned to ice.

Premonitions? Pamela didn't say anything about premonitions! Granted, she didn't take the time to list out every potential ability that psychics could develop, but it would have been nice to know they weren't limited to telepathy. If Sam could see the future, what else could he do? Son of a bitch. No wonder the demons wanted him.

"Dean…" The despair in Sam's voice hit him like a punch to the gut. He was letting his thoughts run wild, and if he didn't get them back under control, he wouldn't be able to block them from his brother.

According to the books Pamela provided, average humans were not helpless against psychic intrusions. In fact, with enough cunning and mental discipline, they could even manage to trick and deceive psychics by learning to showcase thoughts, ideas and emotions of their own choosing for the psychic to read. Dean wasn't at that level, but he supposed the Stynes were, considering their influence over Sam.

The most basic defensive techniques involved cleansing the mind of all activity, which could be achieved through meditation (not Dean's strong suit), or constructing mental fortifications to keep psychics out, but that required major concentration and willpower. Eventually, with enough training, it might become second-nature, but Dean had to practice, and he couldn't let his temper sabotage his efforts. He had to stay calm. And if Pamela were here, she would undoubtedly remind him to take Sam seriously, to restore his dignity by treating him like an adult, and to have faith in him.

"So you think, just cause you had premonitions of Jessica's death, that every nightmare from now on is gonna be some kind of omen?" When Sam wavered, Dean asked, "How do you know it wasn't an ordinary dream? I mean, after all you've been through, sleeping issues are kinda normal. I'd be more concerned if you weren't having nightmares."

"We can't take that risk, Dean," Sam pointed out dejectedly. "Not when Jo's life's on the line. We have to assume the worst, just in case. If there's even a chance Jacob's on his way to the Roadhouse, we have to warn them. Please. I can't let anyone else die because of me."

Dean groaned. No one died _because_ of Sam! If anything, they died _for_ him. Why was that so difficult to grasp? "Okay… So, potentially, this could be a good thing. We know where they're gonna be. Do you have any idea when?"

Sam shifted his weight and shook his head. "Premonitions don't come with timestamps."

Because that would be too convenient. If they knew when the Stynes were going to attack, they could take preemptive measures to ambush them or something, but without an ETA, they might find themselves twiddling their thumbs. Sam said it took days for his previous premonitions to play out—they'd be asking the Harvelles to put their lives on hold for God knew how long, and Ellen wasn't gonna appreciate that. But what choice did they have?

"Fine," he eventually agreed. "Better safe than sorry. You tell me everything you remember from that dream of yours, and I'll call the Roadhouse, dad and Bobby. Maybe they can beat the Stynes there and trap them."

"We should go too," Sam added, with unsettling eagerness. "We're only a state away; we're easily the closest."

Hackles rising, Dean narrowed his eyes. He couldn't be sure, but he wondered if Sam wanted more than to protect the Harvelles. Maybe he wanted to save Cyrus or even see Jacob, and neither possibility was an option at the moment. "No."

Sam blinked, as if hearing wrong. "What do you mean, no?"

Dean shrugged. "I mean, if the Stynes are heading to the Roadhouse, that's the last place in the world I'm taking you."

Sam stared at him, apparently stunned. "You're kidding, right? What about Jo and Ellen?"

"I said I'd call them."

"What if that's not good enough?"

Then Dean would hate himself. Ellen, Jo and Ash were all like family. Ellen had risked her life to rescue Sam, and honestly, Dean could identify with Jo far more than he could with other girls. He cared about them, and under normal circumstances, he'd drop everything to rush to their aid. But these weren't normal circumstances, and as selfish it might sound, Dean wasn't going to put their lives ahead of his brother's. He couldn't.

Standing, he mustered his resolve and braced himself for one of Sammy's sad puppy faces—nothing was more persuasive or unfair. At least nothing used to be. Right now, with Jacob on Dean's mind, Sam's expression worked against him. It made him look young and vulnerable, which only heightened Dean's protectiveness.

"Let me ask you something, Sam. If I gave you a gun and let you charge half-cocked into the Roadhouse, would you be able to shoot Jacob on sight, in the head, without hesitating?"

Sam opened his mouth, but wasn't able to reply. Whether he realized it or not, he was still off his game, and he wouldn't be much help to the Harvelles if Jacob took advantage of his confusion.

Dean sighed. "That's what I thought. You're not ready, Sam, and I'm sorry, but until you convince me otherwise, we're not leaving these woods. Do I make myself clear?"

Sam flinched, tightening his jaw, but he must have known how this argument would end. He turned away to hide his welling tears, but Dean still noticed. Damn.

When would this ordeal finally be over?

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	6. Onslaught

_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter_ _'s one of those necessary background chapters. It doesn't have much Sam or Dean in it, and I'm sorry about that! They_ are _the focus of this story. But I'm really trying to emphasize how far Jacob will go to get Sam back, and I can't skip over these details. Please bear with me!_

 **SPN**

As a hunter with a reputation for intelligence, reliability and proficiency, Bobby Singer knew better than to trust monsters of any breed, but the more he and Rufus got to know Benjamin Lafitte, the more they liked him, despite their better judgment.

Benny was a tall, two-hundred-pound beast (all muscle), with rugged brown hair, crisp blue eyes, and a soft Cajun voice to put his victims at ease (if he wasn't the saint he claimed to be). He was charming, laid-back and friendly even when Rufus shot gibes at him, which suggested he was either a nice vampire, or confident enough to put up with their disdain. His navy pea coat and fisherman's cap were both very respectable, but underneath it all, he wore simple clothes, and would never pass for an elite southern gentleman like Monroe Styne. They might be from the same neck of the woods, but they did not travel in the same circles. So much the better.

After resurrecting Benny in Clayton, Louisiana, Bobby proposed a trip back to Atlanta, Georgia. Benny slept for most of the drive—he was always on guard in Purgatory, and rarely found opportunities to rest. Not even the bright, clear day distracted him. While vampires were sensitive to direct sunlight, which could hurt like a nasty sunburn, they weren't truly threatened by it, and Benny didn't seem to mind.

They arrived in the city on Wednesday evening, November 4, but to avoid unwanted attention, they waited for the early hours of Thursday morning to enter Buckhead, the wealthy neighborhood with the portal to the Stynes' safe house. Bobby assumed the wedding festivities would be over by now, and had a feeling Jacob and his relatives would be out hunting the Winchesters. They wouldn't expect their enemies to make a second raid on the magical château, which at least gave the interlopers the element of surprise.

Bobby wanted to find Cyrus—after Dean called to explain Sam's attachment to the pipsqueak, it became his top priority. As long as Jacob had custody of Cyrus, he had a powerful hold over Sam, which could not be tolerated. Besides, if the kid really was innocent, he should be rescued too. So on the off chance that he remained trapped in the family's pocket dimension, Bobby took advantage of his custom-made key to once again open the portal.

For better or for worse, they found no sign of life on the Stynes' property, as if the place had been deserted. The family was absent, the guests were gone, and the staff seemed to have abandoned their posts. No one cleaned up after the wedding, and wilted roses were shedding dead petals all over the foyer floor. They searched the house for hours, making use of Benny's heightened senses to navigate the complicated, twisting corridors.

Eventually, the vampire led them to a library, then to a secret laboratory hidden behind a bookcase. There, they discovered the corpses of two men and a woman arranged reverently on operating tables. Rufus identified the woman (who resembled Mary Winchester) as the Styne bitch from the courtyard, and just to be safe, he and Bobby took the time to burn all three to ash. After scavenging for a few more hours, they claimed some small trophies and set the library on fire. Then, they made their withdrawal, and returned to the real world.

Finding a cheap motel, they spent the remainder of the day planning their next move. Rufus went to bed early while Bobby kept first watch with Benny. They swapped stories of their past escapades—though Benny spoke only of Purgatory. He seemed haunted by his undead life, and ashamed to think of it. According to Pamela, he betrayed his own nest for the sake of a woman, with tragic consequences, and Bobby could imagine how wretched that must feel, even to a monster.

Around midnight on Friday morning, Bobby woke Rufus to trade places, and promptly fell asleep. All too soon, he was jolted back to consciousness by his buzzing phone. Dean. They had another crisis on their hands, and after a lengthy conversation, Bobby urged Rufus and Benny to pack their belongings. They had to race to Nebraska, and hopefully beat the Stynes to the Roadhouse. Otherwise, Ellen, Jo and Ash could be in terrible danger.

 **SPN**

 **(San Francisco, California … Friday, November 6, 2005)**

At eight o'clock in the morning, Henriksen's office phone began to ring, shattering the silence. He had barely moved since Jacob's preceding call, too distraught to function. Jasmine was on the opposite end of the country, nearly three thousand miles away. He couldn't reach her in time. He couldn't save her. He called everyone he could think of—the police, Steven Groves, his friends at the Bureau—but when they rushed to her house, she was nowhere to be found. Her abductors had taken her somewhere else, and Henriksen knew he would never see her again.

Now, he sat alone at his desk, drained and disheveled. Findley was off making arrangements to protect Kylie and Linda, while the rest of the agency (it seemed) scrambled to locate the psycho before he murdered anyone else. But they weren't going to find him; they didn't have the same magical advantages. After all, if a team of highly trained hunters armed with P90s were unable to neutralize Jacob, what hope did the FBI have?

Henriksen should have called the hunters. They'd be willing to help, he was sure of it. He had Ellen Harvelle's contact information, and she could coordinate with the others. They were decent people—Elizabeth Styne herself acknowledged them as heroes. If they knew about Jasmine, and the threat to Kylie and Linda, they'd have the courage and tenacity to intervene. But what good would it do? For all their expertise, the hunters had yet to stop Jacob, and while Henriksen admired them, could he really depend on them? Could he trust them with Kylie and Linda? Could he trust anyone?

Weighed down by grief, Henriksen answered the phone. "Jacob?"

"Good morning, sir," came the cheerful reply. "Sleep well?"

A burning sensation rose in the back of Henriksen's throat. "I'm going to kill you."

Jacob chuckled. "Yes, that's what you said after I dispatched your partner in Atlanta. What, pray tell, are you waiting for? Another wife to die?"

"You won't get anywhere near them. I don't know how you tracked down Jessica, but we're tightening security, and we're covering our asses, and you're never gonna find them."

"Don't be so sure of that," Jacob countered. "You forget, my cousin's a fortune-teller, and with her mother's crystals, she can easily divine their locations. Last time we checked, Kylie was on a plane to New York, while Linda's cowering in FBI headquarters. She obviously can't stay there forever, and if you don't submit, I'll be waiting to introduce myself when she steps outside. Is that something you want to risk?"

"You're bluffing," Henriksen said through gritted teeth. "If Elizabeth can do all that, why do you need my help to find the Winchesters?"

Jacob clucked his tongue. "Don't be a fool, agent. The Winchesters are hunters. They've learned to conceal themselves. Your ex-wives, on the other hand, don't know the first thing about my family, or the supernatural, and they aren't equipped to hide from us."

Hell, that would have been nice for the hunters to mention.

"I hope you realize it's your fault we're in this little predicament," Jacob taunted. "If you weren't following the Winchesters with your little tracking device two weeks ago, it would have been much more difficult for us to find them, and things might have gone down differently. But what's done is done, and the fact remains, if you don't tell me everything I want to know, then everyone you care about—everyone you love—will pay the price."

"I don't know where the Winchesters are!" Henriksen spat angrily. "You think they trust us after we led you straight to them? Yeah right!"

"I'm not asking about the Winchesters," Jacob replied. "I'm asking about your accomplices—the hunters you crashed the wedding with on Monday morning. What are their names and where can I find them?"

Henriksen caught his breath. Answering those questions went against everything he ever believed in, but Jasmine, Kylie and Linda… They didn't sign up for this. Threats from ordinary criminals, maybe, but the Stynes were far from ordinary criminals. Exhausted, terrified, and devastated, Henriksen lacked the wherewithal to resist. "All right, you win. But if I tell you what you want to know, you have to guarantee you won't hurt my family."

"As long as you don't raise the alarm, they'll be fine," Jacob promised. "They're not that important. Now quit stalling. I'm out of patience."

 _God, forgive me…_ Lost and broken, Henriksen dismally betrayed his recent allies—at least the ones who were present during their confrontation in the Stynes' courtyard. "Rufus Turner. Caleb, no last name. Ellen Harvelle. I don't know where you can find Rufus or Caleb, but Ellen has a Roadhouse in Nebraska." He relayed the address, much to Jacob's pleasure.

"Was that so hard?" the bastard asked. "I appreciate your cooperation, sir, and I look forward to our next encounter." He ended the call, and Henriksen dropped the phone back in its cradle. Thinking of Jasmine, he buried his face in his hands and softly began to sob.

 **SPN**

 **(Nebraska … Sunday, November 8, 2005)**

It was a twenty-one, twenty-two-hour drive from DC to Nebraska, and the Stynes made quite a few pit stops along the way. They knew how dangerous hunters could be, and would rather err on the side of caution. Consequently, they didn't pull up outside the Roadhouse until three-thirty on Sunday morning, an hour-and-a-half after closing. By then, the Harvelles should be tucked away in their beds for some hard-earned rest.

But they were not.

From her seat on the back bunk of a Mack truck sleeper cab, next to Cyrus, Elizabeth frowned at the sole marble-sized crystal she had been granted by her father. Her wrists were still cuffed in the front, but William was offering her one last chance to redeem herself. She had always been the family's best fortune-teller, and they would be stupid not to use her—if only she behaved herself. Now, recovering from her latest trance (which left her dizzy and disoriented), she couldn't shake a foreboding sense of imminent disaster.

"What did you see, Lilibet?" Jacob asked from the driver's seat.

"They're expecting us," she grumbled. "They've formed their own little hunting party, and they've taken strategic positions throughout the bar. They're heavily armed, and they've scratched some protective wards on the walls to nullify our magic. I counted eleven altogether—including John Winchester—but there's no sign of the boys. I doubt they're anywhere in the vicinity."

"John Winchester," William purred from the passenger's seat, hardly fazed by this opposition. "How good of him to make an appearance. I suppose that bloody fed tipped him off, despite our express warnings?"

"No," Elizabeth shook her head. "If he had anything to do with this, he'd be here himself to seek vengeance for his wife. But he's not, and I doubt anyone in that place wants anything to do with the proper authorities. It wasn't Henriksen. Something else spilled the beans."

"Sam," Jacob concluded, which made sense. He was known to have premonitions. "I sure hope Johnny trusts those other hunters. Wouldn't want them getting the wrong idea about the kid's abilities." At the mention of his friend, Cyrus lifted his head anxiously from his knees—though the dark cab was surprisingly spacious, the little brat spent most of the trip curled up in a ball. He obviously wasn't suited for field assignments, and if Monroe was still breathing, he'd no doubt be disappointed. But Elizabeth didn't mind; she enjoyed all the leg room she could take.

"I want Winchester alive," William said, suddenly venomous. "He's a legacy, and he butchered Caroline. I want him to beg for mercy before we sacrifice him."

"Yes sir," Jacob agreed. "Given the circumstances, I suggest we release the dogs. They won't know which hunter's which, but I'll instruct them not to kill anyone till we gain control of the situation. Is that acceptable?"

By 'dogs,' Jacob meant the ten reanimated corpses that his cousin, Victor Frankenstein, had assembled before his death. They currently occupied the trailer of the semi, and were dangerous enough to swarm the Roadhouse with little regard for the weapons awaiting them.

William nodded. "Let's get on with it."

 **SPN**

Benny Lafitte could not remember the last time he felt so relaxed. He wasn't entirely sure how long he spent in Purgatory, but it was enough to make even a room full of hunters pleasant by comparison. The land of the living was a precarious place, and he could smell both the tension surrounding him, and the monstrosities outside. Nevertheless, he was accustomed to leviathans, and therefore confident he could handle the Stynes.

Thanks to the psychic boy's premonition, they knew to expect an attack in the early hours of the morning, before dawn—but they didn't know which night. Consequently, they scheduled shifts to sleep during the day so they could all maintain their vigil together. Ellen Harvelle refused to abandon the Roadhouse; it was her home, and it was all she had left of her husband.

Fortunately for her, she was highly regarded in the hunting community, and several answered the call to stand beside her against this mysterious threat. (Bobby Singer was not very open about the supernatural source of his information. Only Rufus, Ellen, Jo, Caleb, and the boy's father, John, knew the full story.) And so ten fearless souls plus one vampire braced themselves for a violent, potentially fatal confrontation with the house of Frankenstein.

Hoping to catch their enemies off guard, they cut the lights to make the Roadhouse appear unsuspecting and vulnerable. Though vampires could see in the dark, it still heightened Benny's sense of smell, and he couldn't help but savor the delightful blend of fragrances pervading the room. He wasn't hungry—he had spent the previous afternoon filling up on cattle blood, which might have been disgusting if he wasn't fresh out of Purgatory—but it was hard to ignore a group of strong, healthy humans.

As women, Ellen and Jo were more appetizing than the others—he couldn't say why. Bobby and Rufus weren't old so much as seasoned. The guy with the mullet, Ash, was laced with the residue of his recreational activities, which made him a tad curious. Caleb, Tim, Reggie and Steve were all thick and juicy, while John—who seemed like the natural leader—smelled rich and delectable.

The temptation would always be there—Benny couldn't deny that. But in the same way people hated to ruin a perfectly decorated cake, or a well-garnished plate, by their gluttonous consumption, he had grown to hate drinking blood. Life was precious and beautiful; it shouldn't be destroyed on his account—not if he had any say in the matter.

Such sentiments would be hard to explain to hunters—they were so bizarre for vampires. After all, what was Benny but a glorified leech? Animals, blood-suckers, fiends… they weren't civilized or conscionable—that's why hunters could so easily justify killing them. But Benny never asked to be turned, and he never became cold and evil like his maker. He was different, and the emptiness inside him did not cry out for more death. It cried out for peace.

Hoping to atone for his past, and earn that peace, Benny anticipated the upcoming battle. Only three of the hunters knew what he actually was (Bobby, Rufus, and John), so to keep from exposing himself, he would have to control his vampiric reflexes and rely on his machete. No big deal. If everything went as planned, the hunters would simply shoot the Stynes on sight while he picked off any who happened to survive the barrage. They would call it a win and go their separate ways.

Of course, as soon as the Mack truck appeared outside the Roadhouse, Benny grimaced at the startling odor. He might have been warned about the Stynes' enhancements, but that didn't account for the stench of decay. Somewhat confused, he set his jaw, rolled his shoulders, and impatiently prowled from one end of the bar to the other. His pacing irritated the hunters, but they also knew the Stynes were out there, and they were silently, attentively holding their breaths.

But when the attack finally came, it wasn't a stealthy infiltration as the psychic boy predicted. Instead, a horde of zombie-like monsters crashed through the front door and several windows with impressive savagery. To their credit, the hunters kept their wits about them, firing at the intruders with focus and precision—not that it did much good. The walking corpses were clearly impervious to bullets.

They had thick hides, too. When Benny lashed out with his machete, it practically bounced off. He had half a mind to bare his fangs in frustration, but he was starting to recognize the smell of dead man's blood. If he dared to bite any of these creatures, it would poison him. Talk about inconvenient. The fight had barely started, and they were already losing ground.

 **SPN**

Once Jacob and William climbed out of the cab, locking Elizabeth and Cyrus in for safe keeping, the young woman began chanting in ancient Sumerian—the same dialect found in the family's stolen spell book. She _had_ to remove the shackles binding her wrists, and this could be the perfect opportunity. For the first time in days, she was unsupervised.

"What are you doing, Lilibet?" Cyrus asked in alarm, scooting away from her. "Those cuffs are magic resistant!"

"But not magic immune," she replied hastily. "Daddy isn't as strong as he thinks he is, and he can't block my powers as effectively as mother could. So if I can tap into my true potential, I might be able to surpass him, and we can finally escape. Both of us!" She didn't really care about Cyrus' freedom, but since he happened to be at her side, she didn't mind dragging him along. Sam might even thank her for it.

Returning to her chant, she focused on her restraints. All magic came with a price, and she was already rattled from her recent trance, but she was too desperate to reconsider. With ringing in her ears, and pressure building in her chest, she sensed an oncoming eruption. If she couldn't contain it, the collateral damage would be devastating.

But she _would_ contain it. She had to.

Energy swirled around her, making her hair billow. In the distance, she thought she heard Cyrus call her name, but she tuned him out, chanting all the louder. Cracks appeared in the windows, which promptly shattered, and after the truck rocked back and forth, the handcuffs finally disengaged.

She had been a slave too long, and the initial release was a shock, filling her with ecstasy. She gasped, flashing back to her prison break—she had the power to make the ground tremble at her command. She was her mother's daughter. A queen. A goddess. And she would no longer endure this misery.

No! Stop!

Elizabeth pressed her hands against her head, straining against her hysteria. She would not sacrifice her sanity just to achieve independence. There had to be another way.

Her father's protective amulet. Or Victor's—they each possessed one, and after the latter's death, William scavenged the body for useful loot. He now wore both around his neck, preferring not to waste limited resources. The amulets could absorb the negative reactions to his magic, allowing him to cast spells without consequences, but only to a point. Once they reached their capacities, they spontaneously emptied themselves, and if William did not have another vessel ready to receive all that negativity, then all sorts of havoc would be unleashed in the surrounding environment. It might even kill him, and everyone else in the vicinity.

Elizabeth had to get her hands on one of the two amulets, and quickly. It was her only hope of escaping unscathed.

Floating through the broken windshield, she magically crossed the parking lot from the truck to the Roadhouse. Inside, ten dogs were attempting to subdue ten fiesty hunters without actually hurting them. Jacob was brawling with some boorish stranger, and William was circling the perimeter, busy defacing the wards on the walls that were nullifying his magic.

Elizabeth smirked; they weren't nullifying _her_ magic. No doubt about it now; she was an unrivaled powerhouse, and these fools would need more than mere symbols to slow her down.

Sensing his daughter's arrival, William turned in astonishment, but he never got the chance to protest. Elizabeth extended her arm and telekinetically summoned the vital jewelry. It snapped from his neck and soared to her hand. The moment her fingers clenched around it, the amulet blazed crimson.

Magical energy sizzled throughout the room, enveloping Stynes, dogs, and hunters alike. Elizabeth lost herself, overwhelmed by the frenzy. She thought she heard screaming, thunder, and explosions.

Then everything went dark.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	7. Back to Square One

_**Author's Note:**_ _Sammy's in this chapter! Yay! He's my favorite character, and I've been neglecting him, but no more of that! :-) Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

 **(Lost Creek, Colorado … Sunday, November 8, 2005)**

These days, finding a cabin on the Winchester budget in the middle of Colorado was no easy feat—especially when they weren't calling in favors or making use of their credit cards. They had to stay under the radar, which meant renting one of the smallest, oldest cabins available, with none of the modern amenities that normal tourists would demand. Still, it was cozy, surprisingly well-maintained, and surrounded by gorgeous scenery. Not much to complain about, as far as Dean was concerned.

The morning air was crisp when he stepped outside to call Bobby, who had a better track record at answering the phone than his father. While Dean wasn't entirely convinced Sam's recent nightmare was more than a dream, he couldn't discount it until he knew for sure, and he wasn't willing to bet Jo's life on it. Or Ellen's or Ash's. Consequently, it was hard to sleep at night, knowing they could be in danger and he wasn't there to back them up—he despised sitting on the side lines. But he wasn't about to leave Sam on his own, and he certainly wasn't taking him to the Roadhouse, which left him between a rock and a hard place. He had no choice but to stay here, wait as patiently as he could, and make the most of it.

To be honest, the situation sucked, and Dean hoped Bobby would have some good news. After all, they deserved it. But when the call finally connected, Dean's heart stopped as a stranger with a southern accent hesitantly asked, "Hello? Someone there?"

The vampire. It had to be the vampire. Bobby said he was from Louisiana, and if he had spent the last few decades in Purgatory, it made sense for him to be uncomfortable on a cell phone—which led to the operative question. Why was he on Bobby's cell phone? Warily, Dean growled, "This better be who I think it is, or there's gonna be hell to pay."

Questions barreled through his mind. Where was Bobby? Why did he give a vampire his phone? Was he hurt? Was he dead?

"Relax," the stranger said, detecting the tension in his voice. "Name's Benny Lafitte, and I'm a friend. Cross my heart. This Dean?"

"What makes you think that?" Whether or not Pamela trusted the vampire, he was still a vampire, and Dean had a hard time dropping his guard.

"You called 'round this hour yesterday morning," Benny observed. "Thought you might be keeping tabs on your hunting buddies, given the perils of our mission. Am I wrong?"

"No," Dean grumbled, running a hand through his short hair. Overhead, he caught sight of a solitary hawk gliding above the trees, and he envied its unruffled composure. "Listen, don't take this the wrong way, but where the hell's Bobby?"

The vampire sighed. "Straight to it, then. All right. We're at the Browning Memorial Medical Center."

"WHAT!?"

"Don't panic; the good guys all made it out alive, no thanks to your brother's intel—he kinda missed the mark on a few details."

 _Son of a bitch!_ Dean turned in a frantic circle, torn between the cabin and the Impala. If he left now, he could reach the hospital before nightfall, and the prospect was tempting. After all, if his friends were in such bad shape they required medical attention, it had to be serious, and he couldn't just ignore that! But then again, he didn't know the full story. Maybe he was overreacting. "Benny, I need you to start at the beginning, and don't leave anything out."

"You got it, chief." The vampire proceeded to describe the recent showdown at the Roadhouse. Yes, the Stynes did arrive around three-thirty in the morning as Sam foretold, but there was nothing quiet or sneaky about their incursion. Instead, they mobilized ten walking corpses to storm the place, and the hunters didn't stand a chance. By the time Jacob and his older relative (who Sam identified as Elizabeth's father, William) appeared to oversee the remainder of their conquest, things were looking desperate.

"I traded some blows with that Jacob guy, for good measure," Benny said. "I reckon we were evenly matched, but I couldn't bring myself to bite him. He smelled wrong. Not necessarily poisonous, not like the corpses, but still wrong. Has to be his enhancements—all those extra features taken from dead folks—they're tainting his blood, and I couldn't stomach it. But I promise you, next time I see the cocky bastard, I'll be ready for him."

So Jacob was still out there. That was fan-freaking-tastic. Surprisingly, as much as Dean wanted to personally get rid of his brother's tormenter, he heard himself say, "If you do kill him, I'll owe you one."

Benny grunted. "Anyway, it wasn't going well. But then, the young lady—Elizabeth?—swooped in and all hell broke loose. She telekinetically stole some kind of medallion from the eldest Styne, and as soon as she touched it, there was some kind of eruption. I blacked out. Next thing I know, I'm lying in a pile of rubble and everyone except Elizabeth's unconscious. She got her hands on a discarded pistol, and took the opportunity to execute the old gent."

Dean blinked, wondering if he heard that correctly. "Wait, really? Old gent as in old Styne? He's supposed to be her dad!"

"Well, in that case, he must have spanked her too hard, or something. She shot him point-blank. Now, keep in mind, during all this, the Roadhouse is on fire, and it's a bar, so there's a lot of alcohol. I didn't stop to ask questions, or kill Jacob, or anything. I just started dragging people outside. Luckily, Elizabeth was inclined to help, or I never would've saved everyone. We got out just in time, too. Those flames were uncontrollable. I found myself staring at them, wondering what to do next, when suddenly, Jacob emerged like some kind of fiery demon, and damn, was he pissed. Elizabeth took one look at him and fled on foot. He let her go, apparently more interested in your dad. Tried getting his hands on him, but I did what I could to fend him off. Can't take too much credit; someone called the cops, and we could hear the fire trucks on their way. Jacob cut his losses, returned to his semi, and retreated. So, help arrived, and now we're at the hospital."

"And everyone's okay?"

"They'll live, but they're still shaky. Whatever that blast was, it really sapped their strength. Add in a little smoke inhalation, and they might be on bed rest for awhile."

Dean scoffed, trying to imagine his dad on bed rest. Or Bobby, or any of them. "Yeah, that'll be the day. I don't suppose I can talk to one of them?"

"Well, Bobby's under sedation. Your daddy and Ellen are chatting with the cops, and these nurses don't like their patients being disturbed. They run a pretty tight ship around here, but let me see what I can do."

Dean waited silently while the vampire navigated the hospital corridors. Even over the phone, he could make out some of the background noise, which confirmed the location. If Benny was telling the truth (and Pamela claimed he could be trusted), then they were officially in the vampire's debt. Granted, Bobby got him out of Purgatory and he was simply returning the favor, but he really went the extra mile, and Dean found the irony unsettling. Hunters and vampires working together? It was crazy!

A few minutes later, Benny relinquished the phone to Jo, who greeted Dean with a raspy voice. "Hey there, loser. You missed one hell of a party last night."

She sounded awful, but at least her humor was still in tact. Dean sighed in relief. "I wish I could've been there. I'm sorry. This is all our fault."

"It's not your fault the Stynes are dicks. We're alive, and from what I understand, they're down some players. Call it a win?"

If only Dean could channel her optimism. "Do you need anything? I can be there in a few hours."

"No, you need to stay put," Jo reminded him, much to his frustration. "For all we know, Jacob could be watching the hospital, waiting for you and Sam to surface. Don't make it that easy for him." Dean grimaced while Benny muttered something in the background. Jo passed along the message. "Your friend here's planning to patrol the area. He'll keep us safe till we're back on our feet. You don't have to worry. Just keep an eye on your brother."

"Well, that goes without saying." Dean would protect Sam with his life. "But it'd be nice if I could take out Jacob at the same time. Why's he keep getting away?"

"He's a cockroach," she replied, sharing his disgruntlement. "Be careful, Dean. The son of a bitch had zombies working for him. Freaking zombies! His obsession with Sam's off the scale, and we both know he's not gonna rest till he gets what he wants."

 **SPN**

The next few days were hard on the brothers. Though their loved ones made smooth, speedy recoveries and resumed their hunt with as much zeal as ever, it still felt like they were back to square one. Stuck in hiding, they had absolutely no idea where Jacob and Cyrus were—not to mention Elizabeth—or how long they'd have to live in fear. Every time Sam thought of his stalkers, his spirits sank, and while his physical injuries began to heal, his heart was heavy. Dean encouraged him to practice meditating as Pamela prescribed, and gradually his skills improved, but they did nothing for his grief. Jessica was gone. Cyrus remained with Jacob. And Sam was so devastated that he would have wasted away if it weren't for Dean.

But Dean made sure Sam was eating regularly, sleeping, and even exercising when his strength returned. They took advantage of their environment to bask in the crisp mountain air; to hike through the woods; to fish and for once appreciate the beauty of nature. There were moments when Sam nearly forgot his woes, but they were rare and fleeting, and they always left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. What right did he have to find solace when Jessica was dead? When Cyrus needed him? Not to mention when his very existence might someday threaten the world?

He couldn't escape the crushing weight of Azazel's dark agenda. He didn't know what the demon wanted, or what his plans were, but he still remembered their conversation on the night of the wedding.

" _You're special—a priceless asset—and I'd be remiss not to protect my interests."_

" _Find someone else!"_

" _Can't. It's not a matter of finding someone, or choosing someone, or asking someone, Sammy. That would be too easy. Fact is, you were born for this. You're the one. It has to be you."_

The demon's conviction left Sam with twisted feelings of shame, worthlessness, and revulsion. There were moments when he despised himself, and he realized he would never gain redemption by running away. This game of Hide and Seek wouldn't solve anything; it would only prolong his anguish. Sensing his brother's own restlessness, Sam thought it worth mentioning—after all, he could understand why Dean would be reluctant to take him on a Styne hunt, but he was talking about Azazel. Sam didn't have any mixed feelings whatsoever about Azazel, and surely Dean would want to go after their mom's killer. Right?

Wrong. As it turned out, Dean wouldn't even consider the idea. "No! Just, just no! First of all, we don't know where to find the demon. We've been hunting him our whole lives, and it's safe to assume we're not going to find him unless he wants to be found, in which case, we don't know how to kill him or even how to exorcize him. We'd just be giving him what he wants! Besides, you don't have to prove anything, Sammy. You've never done anything wrong, and you shouldn't be ashamed of yourself!"

"It's not about what I've done, Dean. It's about what I _am_."

"You're my little brother. Case closed."

There was no reasoning with him. Dean always thought he knew best, and he could be as stubborn as their father. Sam loved him, but honestly, the world wasn't so black and white. Azazel didn't care about what kind of person he was. Good, evil, it didn't matter. Sam was nothing but property to the demon, and if he wanted to protect humanity, he had to eliminate the threat—either by killing Azazel or by killing himself. There wasn't a third option, and he had to accomplish it sooner rather than later, before it was too late.

If Dean wouldn't help him, he could always leave on his own. The only reason he stuck around for so long was to recover from the gunshot wounds. Now that he was finally on the mend, he could take a map of the forest, stock up on supplies, and sneak out while Dean slept. As long as he covered his tracks, his brother wouldn't know where to begin looking for him, and he could proceed to hunt as he saw fit.

Finding Azazel might not be that hard, either. During his captivity, Sam learned how to psychically call out to Jacob, and if he could reach Jacob, he could probably reach the demon, especially since they had some kind of blood connection. Azazel would definitely come for Sam—he was the perfect bait!—but he'd have to be ready to kill him on sight. In all likelihood, he would only have one shot.

Unfortunately, Dean was right about one thing. They didn't know how to pull it off. How do you kill something so evil? Was it even possible? Who would know?

Jacob. Obviously, Jacob would know.

The very idea made Sam feverish. His eldest brother was a frightening, ruthless, possessive monster, not to mention Azazel's ally. But that was before Elizabeth murdered William. Jacob didn't actually like the demon, and without the patriach's mediation, their treaty might crumble. Would Jacob turn on Azazel if Sam asked?

Maybe.

Or maybe not. It was hard to say, but one thing was certain—Sam wouldn't find out under Dean's supervision. The time had come to take matters into his own hands.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author**_ _ **'s Note:**_ _So, I_ _'_ _m starting to worry this fic might be disjointed. I hope you_ _'re all following along okay. Please review and let me know what you're thinking. I crave feedback!_


	8. Into the Woods

_**Author's Note:**_ _Shout out to_ _ **Fiery Charizard**_ _,_ _ **brihun2388**_ _,_ _ **Arivoctix**_ _, and_ _ **Souless666**_ _! Thank you for your kind reviews. I_ _'_ _m not sure I_ _'d be doing this without you. :-)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters. This is purely for fan enjoyment._

 **SPN**

 **(Lost Creek, Colorado … Wednesday, November 11, 2005)**

Early in the morning, while it was still dark out, Sam crept through the cabin and gathered all the gear and provisions he could carry in a hiking pack that someone left in the closet. It took longer than he would have liked, but if he wasn't careful, he might wake Dean, and he couldn't afford that. His brother would only try to stop him. Consequently, he tucked an unlit flashlight into one of the pack's side pockets to use later when the bright beam wouldn't give him away.

Outside, the temperature was in the high thirties—surprisingly warm for Colorado this time of year. It hadn't even snowed yet! But that could change any day now, so Sam dressed in thick layers under an olive-green hooded field jacket. He dropped a note for Dean on his pillow, urging him not to panic—he was leaving voluntarily so he could hunt Azazel.

Satisfied, Sam ventured out the door and started northwest, away from civilization. It would be one hell of a back-country excursion, with rough terrain and dense vegetation, but he had studied his map intently and knew where he was going. Thanks to all the wilderness survival training John put him through as a teenager, he felt more or less competent—and potentially reckless—but honestly, Dean wasn't giving him another option.

Once in the woods, Sam moved quickly, covering as much ground as possible. He could pace himself later, but right now, he needed a good head start on Dean to hinder his pursuit. At first, it took considerable concentration to hide his tracks, but as the sun began to rise, he eventually found himself relaxing. He was far enough away from the cabin to qualify as a needle in a haystack, and he could drop his guard.

Around mid-morning, he took a break to catch his breath and eat some brunch. The sky was overcast, but the trees blocked the wind, and it was actually starting to warm up. Sam felt comfortable and free for the first time in ages. But of course that didn't last. The longer he rested, the more his thoughts turned against him. He was haunted by painful memories of Jessica, Cyrus, Azazel, Jacob, and the entire Styne family… They refused to leave him alone. Only when he was exerting himself did they fade from his mind, which spurred him to continue on his journey.

It was late in the afternoon when he began to notice the unusual lack of crickets, birds, and squirrels. The woods were silent, and he paused to strain his ears. Nothing but rustling leaves. Strange. He had reached an area of the forest labeled 'Blackwater Ridge' on his map, and it should have been crawling with wildlife, so what was going on?

Suddenly on edge, Sam closed his eyes and surrendered to his psychic instincts. He didn't have much practical experience discerning the energy of his surroundings, but after pouring over Pamela's psychic manual, he was familiar with the general concept. Centering himself, he intentionally opened his mind and broadened his awareness. Sure enough, he sensed something dark and malignant lurking in the distance. It wasn't demonic, but all the same, it was foul, violent, and hungry. It made Sam's skin crawl, and he quickly backpedaled, raising his defenses.

What the hell did he walk into?

Dropping his pack, Sam hastily checked his Beretta. He must have the worst luck in the history of hunting. Lions, tigers and bears were one thing, but unexpected supernatural freaks? Come on! He didn't deserve this crap! And of course it had to happen right after he ditched his brother. Because what else was new?

Reshouldering his pack, Sam advanced as covertly as he could. His only hope was to avoid detection and get the hell out of here—like it would ever be that easy. It didn't take him more than an hour to stumble upon the monster's handiwork, and he stopped short at the sight. Two bloody tents were completely tattered, camping supplies were strewn across the ground, and several tree trunks were tarnished with monstrous red claw marks—more blood.

Sam could sense lingering traces of fear and agony, which made bile burn in his throat. What could have done this? And where was it now?

Just when he thought the situation couldn't get more complicated, he was suddenly distracted by loud shuffling to his left. Swinging around, he aimed his Beretta just in time to watch three figures plow through the underbrush, in single file. First came a weathered, middle-aged outdoorsman with fair hair and a hunting rifle. Then came an awkward teenager, followed by an athletic, dark-haired woman.

Before either the woman or the teen could react, their leader scowled at Sam and leveled his rifle. "Drop your weapon!"

"Please don't shoot!" Sam made a show of disarming himself. "I didn't do this, I swear to God! I was just hiking!"

"Oh my God," the woman whispered, taking in the demolished campground. "TOMMY!?" Without giving Sam a second glance, she scrambled forward in obvious distress. "TOMMY!" She began searching through the nearest tent while her leader kept his gun fixed on Sam. He managed to maintain a calm, cool disposition, but there was no mistaking the distrust on his face.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Sam. It's Sam."

"Hi Sam. I'm Roy. You care to explain what happened here?" His voice was dripping with suspicion and Sam half-expected him to shoot just for the hell of it. At a loss for words, he stared at the rifle in alarm.

But then, a whistle sounded to his right, and everyone paused to seek out its source. There, twenty feet away, stood Dean with a pistol aimed at Roy's head. "How 'bout you point that thing somewhere else?"

Sam's jaw dropped. He had never been more surprised or confused to see his brother.

Flinching, Roy lowered his rifle, but Dean wasn't pacified until he dropped it on the ground, and even then, he was clearly furious.

"Please don't shoot!" the woman begged, tears in her eyes. "We're just trying to find my brother and his friends!"

"And you think shooting _my_ brother is going to help?" Dean snapped, returning his gun to his belt. "What, does he look like a damn grizzly? He didn't do this!"

"All right, I'm sorry," Roy exclaimed, more annoyed than apologetic. "I was caught off guard, and I overreacted, but I wasn't gonna kill him." Sam could sense his sincerity. Roy was an arrogant jerk, but not a criminal.

"He's telling the truth, Dean." Taking a deep breath, Sam tried to calm his nerves while the five of them gathered around each other. Dean made sure to insert himself between Sam and Roy, but at least he wasn't throwing punches.

After a tense, momentary silence, the woman sighed and took charge of introductions. "All right, look, my name's Haley Collins. This is my brother, Ben." She indicated the teenager before gesturing at Roy. "And you've met our guide. We're not trying to cause trouble. We just want to know what happened to Tommy, Brad, and Gary. This is their camp, and they're obviously in danger."

Thankfully, Dean's expression softened as he gave Haley a once-over. Dressed in khaki shorts and a blue fleece jacket, she was just an ordinary civilian with nice legs and full lips. She wasn't a threat to Sam, which meant Dean had no quarrel with her. He even smiled. "Well, Haley, I'm Dean, and if you promise to keep your 'guide' off our asses, we might be willing to help you find them." He glared at Sam. "It's not like we have anything better to do."

Sam averted his eyes.

Meanwhile, Ben was shaking in agitation. He was a wiry kid with slumped shoulders and short black hair. To Sam, he reeked of loneliness. "Do you think they're still…? Still…?" He couldn't get the word out.

"Alive?" Roy offered. "Hard to say. But I'm not seeing any dismembered body parts, so it's possible they ran off and got lost." The imagery turned Ben's face a sickly shade of green while Haley wiped her eyes. Dean cast Roy a look of unbridled disgust, which he met with a shrug. "We've got to be realistic here. These are dangerous woods, and my hunch is you're right, we're dealing with a grizzly."

"It wasn't a grizzly," Sam softly protested, much to everyone's surprise. He didn't want to scare them, but they had a right to know how screwed they were. Unfortunately, he wasn't given time to elaborate; he was interrupted by a distant, petrified scream.

"HELP!"

Ben and Haley both jumped while Roy snatched up his rifle. Without hesitating, he and Dean took off in the direction of the voice. Sam tried not to curse as he dropped his pack and reclaimed his Beretta.

"HELP!"

Ben and Haley likewise dropped their gear and scrambled after their guide with the best of intentions, too gullible for their own good, which left Sam with no choice but to follow close behind. If he let them out of his sight, they wouldn't stand a chance.

"HELP! SOMEBODY!"

They crashed through a dense patch of spruce trees, hurdling rocks, fallen logs, and other obstacles, but they couldn't seem to locate any stranded campers—as if the shouting came out of thin air. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped, and even Roy recognized the peculiarity of their search-and-rescue. They quickly came to a standstill, listening and scanning their surroundings for fresh leads.

"It seemed like it was coming from around here, didn't it?" Haley asked in genuine concern, but no one answered. Roy paced a few steps forward, trying to gather his wits, while Ben caught his breath. Dean narrowed his eyes, outwardly composed, but inwardly alarmed. His instincts were on high alert, and the moment everything clicked into place, Sam sensed his aggravation. They glanced at each other, and Sam nodded, which made Dean grimace. They weren't expecting a hunt; they weren't prepared for a hunt; and for once in their lives, they might actually be the hunted. Sam could almost hear him say, 'Son of a bitch.'

Even with his psychic abilities, it was hard to glean what they were up against. Sam could discern hunger, intelligence, animosity, and aggression—obviously a predator—but without it contemplating its own existence, he couldn't ascertain its species.

Regardless, he could make one hell of an educated guess.

"Everybody back to camp!" Sam urgently ushered them back the way they came, and happily, they obeyed. It took awhile to retrace their steps, and with each passing second, he felt increasingly exposed.

"Our packs!" Haley exclaimed when they reached their destination only to find their possessions gone—stolen—exactly as Sam feared. They were sitting ducks!

"So much for my GPS and my satellite phone," Roy grumbled, squatting down to search for tracks that he wouldn't find.

"What the hell is going on?" Haley demanded with a furrowed brow.

"It's smart," Sam replied bitterly. "It wants to cut us off so we can't call for help."

Roy straightened back up and surveyed the trees. "You mean someone, some nutjob out there, just stole all our gear." His gaze landed on Sam and Dean. "And I suppose neither of you had anything to do with this?" Sam would have stiffened if he wasn't already so tense, but Dean just rolled his eyes.

"Come on, man, I know we didn't get off on the right foot, but trust me, if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have introduced myself. I would've taken you out before you saw me coming. Honest."

"Oh, that's comforting," Roy snarled, but Haley interceded for them.

"That's enough!" she said, sidling between the two men. She glared at each of them in frustration. "Like it or not, we're in this together. We should try to cooperate."

"We need to get out of here," Sam added, but Haley wouldn't hear of it.

"I'm not leaving without Tommy! He could still be alive!"

"You don't understand," Sam warned her, trying to keep his voice steady. "That thing out there is evil, and it has the upper ground, and it's gonna eat us alive if we don't get to safety."

"Relax, kid," Roy interrupted. "I've been hunting these woods since you were a baby. I think I can handle whatever's out there."

Sam's head was starting to throb, and he winced, rubbing his temples. Why were they making this so difficult? He was just trying to protect them! But of course, given his recent history, he should have known better. He couldn't protect anyone. Not Jessica. Not Cyrus. Not anyone. He was a worthless tool in some demon's plan to destroy the world.

"Sammy?" Dean crossed over to him and hustled him away from the group. His touch was commanding and custodial. Typical Dean… But also reminiscent of Jacob… Sam tried to ignore the thought as he faced his brother. This was no time for a personal crisis, and apparently Dean was on the same wavelength. He was all business. "Sam, what's out there? What do you know that I don't?"

"Think about it, Dean. It's a predator, but if it snacked on those campers, it didn't leave a damn crumb. You saw the claw marks on those trees, right? It should have mutilated them, but we haven't found any evidence of that, so it might have taken them somewhere for safe keeping. And now it's stalking us, mimicking a human voice to sidetrack us while it steals our gear. What's that sound like to you?"

Dean made a face. "Oh, come on. Wendigos are in the Minnesota woods, or, or northern Michigan. I've never even heard of one this far west." Sam shrugged halfheartedly, and Dean groaned. "Great. Just great." He flaunted his pistol. "Well, then this is useless." He stalked back to the others, dragging Sam with him while muttering under his breath.

Haley watched them approach and observed their expressions. "You're not just hikers, are you? At least not like any hikers I know. What's going on? What aren't you telling us?"

Dean spared her a sympathetic glance. "Basically, we think it's a crazy-ass cannibal." Even Roy blanched at that remark; he tightened his grip on his rifle while Haley wrapped an arm around Ben's shoulder. "Listen," Dean went on. "It's getting late. If we're right about this, we're up against a hunter that operates best at night. We'll never beat it; not in the dark. We need to settle in and protect ourselves."

"It?" Roy asked with a raised eyebrow.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, you heard me. That thing out there… It sure as hell ain't human."

 **SPN**

Night came swiftly deep in the forest, and with it, their odds of survival were progressively diminishing. Still, it could have been worse. When Dean followed Sam out of their cabin sixteen hours ago, he had the good sense to bring along their dad's journal. Now, he circled their campsite tracing Anasazi symbols in the dirt for their protection. According to John's notes, they functioned like a salt line, keeping wendigos at bay.

Meanwhile, Haley and Ben sat huddled around a small fire. Roy watched over them with his rifle propped against his shoulder, and Sam curled up against a tree several yards away where he could tune out their conversation. He had no interest in their skepticism, and when it came to men like Roy, Dean was better at crowd control—especially these days. The Stynes had done a real number on Sam's confidence, and he wouldn't have been able to muster up much authority.

Once Dean was satisfied with his work, he slowly drifted over to Sam's side. They were in desperate need of some conflict management, and they were fresh out of excuses to avoid it. Sam braced himself for a serious reprimand, but Dean surprised him with a gentle inquiry. "Do you really think you can pull this off on your own?"

Deep down, Sam knew the truth and shook his head. "I don't get it, Dean. It's like Jacob left some kind of permanent impression on me, and I can't stop thinking, if you're not gonna help me fight the demon, maybe he will."

"He won't," Dean said. "Not really. You've got to remind yourself he's a manipulative bastard, and he only wants to hurt you. Don't go looking for him, Sammy. It won't accomplish anything."

Sam nodded. "I know that. But at the same time, I can't get myself to believe it."

If his confession upset his brother, Dean gave no sign. If anything, he'd been expecting it. "Pamela told me the Stynes used your abilities against you. They forced you to share their thoughts and feelings, and all that garbage, so now it's hard for you to separate their desires from your own. But it's not permanent, Sam. You've gotta believe that. It'll fade over time, and you'll be yourself again. I promise."

Sam smiled grimly. "You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do," Dean assured him. "I've got faith."

Cocking his head, Sam briefly marveled at his brother's choice of words. Then, after a pause, he asked, "How'd you find me out here? You were asleep when I left, and I covered my tracks."

Dean smirked. "Sorry, pal, but you weren't even out the door when I woke up. I've been teaching myself how to block my thoughts, and apparently, I've got some natural talent. You're not the only gifted Winchester."

Sam rolled his eyes, but couldn't deny he was impressed. "Okay. So if I didn't run into Roy, how long were you gonna wait to show yourself?"

Dean shrugged. "I was kinda hoping you'd snap out of it and turn around on your own, but I guess that was naive of me." He glanced over at the campfire where Haley was trying to comfort Ben, and a sigh passed his lips. "You know what, though? I'm glad it worked out this way. Cause you're right, we don't belong hiding in a cabin. We belong out here. Saving people. Hunting things. And if we give that up, we're giving the Stynes too much control over our lives, and I won't stand for that. So tomorrow, I'm gonna hunt a wendigo. And after that, I'm gonna hit the road. You in?"

Sam nodded blearily. "Yeah. I'm in."

At that moment, the same frightened voice from earlier screamed through the dark. "HELP ME!" Sam's heart leapt to his throat, and he fumbled for his flashlight while Dean rose calmly to his feet, gun in hand. "PLEASE!"

Side by side, they stalked over to Haley and Ben, who were cowering by the flames, while Roy expertly prepped his rifle. Sam brandished his beam, and they all waited in breathless anxiety, searching for movement.

"HELP!"

"He's trying to draw us out," Dean warned the civilians. "Just stay cool. Stay put."

"Inside the magic circle?" Roy scoffed, trying to hide how rattled he actually was by their impossible situation.

"HELP!" The cries were coming from different directions, and Sam struggled to track it. Damn thing wouldn't let them pin it down. "HELP ME!" It was getting closer, and Haley was on the verge of panicking. "PLE-AAWWRRR!" The scream turned into a savage roar, unlike anything Roy had previously encountered.

He aimed his weapon, scared but determined to stand his ground. "Okay, that's no grizzly." Dean watched as he ventured towards the edge of camp, itching for something to shoot. If only bullets worked on wendigos.

"It's okay," Haley whispered to Ben, suppressing her fear by embracing her role as big sister. "You'll be all right, I promise." They ducked down behind the hunters, bracing for an attack, when suddenly the monster swept through the underbrush like a rapid whirlwind, growling as it went. Haley recoiled with a shriek, shoving Ben behind her, while Roy retaliated with several gun blasts. Incredibly, his aim was true, and just like that, his uneasiness gave way to excitement.

"I hit it!" Without a second thought, he charged ahead, straight into the woods, beyond the protection of the Anasazi symbols.

"Roy, no!" Dean objected, but it was too late to stop him. "ROY!" The man was obviously a reckless and arrogant dick, but he didn't deserve to die. Dean glanced back at Haley and Ben. "Don't move!" Then he scrambled after the idiot with Sam on his heels. "ROY!"

"It's over here!" Roy called over his shoulder. "It's in the trees!"

"ROY?"

Something snapped in Sam's mind, making him lose his balance. He stumbled to his hands and knees, gasping in shock. What the hell? Tears filled his eyes, and he knew without a doubt they would never see Roy again.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_

 _ **Note:**_ _Wendigo was written by Eric Kripke, Ron Milbauer, and Terri Hughes Burton. I take no credit._


	9. The Hunt

_**Author's Note:**_ _Wendigo is not necessarily my favorite episode of season 1, but it_ _'s Sam and Dean's first real case after Jessica's death, and I wanted to give it some attention, just to explore how Sam's new-found abilities might affect his hunting. :-)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters._ _Wendigo was written by Eric Kripke, Ron Milbauer, and Terri Hughes Burton. I take no credit._ _This is purely for fan enjoyment._

 **SPN**

 **(Lost Creek, Colorado … Thursday, November 12, 2005)**

Morning could not come fast enough for the would-be rescue party. After Sam and Dean returned to camp, the monster continued prowling around them, watching from afar. It would occasionally shriek, affording them no rest, but it failed to cross over the Anasazi symbols, which more than anything confirmed its species. It was definitely a wendigo, and while Roy's rifle did very little damage, it was still angry at being shot.

However, as soon as the sun came out, silence once again pervaded the forest like a fog. Curled up at the foot of a massive tree stump, Sam listened to it in blatant depression. He wasn't particularly fond of Roy, but life was precious, and now he had another name to add to his growing list of failures. The longer he dwelled on it, the more he accepted their need to 'deputize' Haley and Ben. Unless they killed the wendigo, they would never escape, but they couldn't focus on their hunt if they were babysitting civilians. Haley and Ben would have to rise to the challenge, and they'd have to do it quickly.

At least the Anasazi symbols gave them credibility—how else could they explain surviving the night? As Haley and Ben came to grips with the reality of monsters, Dean scavenged the wreckage for useful supplies. Eventually, Sam mustered the fortitude to join them. "Hey," he said mildly, catching their attention. "So, we've got half a chance in the daylight. And I, for one, want to kill this evil son of a bitch."

Dean looked pleasantly surprised. "Well, hell, you know I'm in."

The next thing they knew, Sam was showing one of John's journal entries to Haley and Ben. "Wendigo is a Cree Indian word. It means 'evil that devours.'"

"They're hundreds of years old," Dean said, finding a can of lighter fluid. "Each one was once a man. Sometimes an Indian, or other times a frontiersman, or a miner or hunter."

Haley was rightfully disturbed. "How's a man turn into one of those things?"

"Well, it's always the same," Dean replied, next noticing an unopened beer bottle. "During some harsh winter, a guy finds himself starving, cut off from supplies or help. Becomes a cannibal to survive, eating other members of his tribe or camp."

"Like the Donner Party," Ben observed dejectedly.

Sam nodded. "Cultures all over the world believe that eating human flesh gives a person certain abilities. Speed, strength, immortality."

"If you eat enough of it," Dean added, "over years, you become this less than human thing. You're always hungry."

"So if that's true," Haley asked, processing their words, "how can Tommy still be alive?"

Dean hesitated, trading glances with Sam before responding. "You're not gonna like it."

"Tell me." She was still adamant about her mission, not that anyone could blame her. After all, Tommy was her brother.

"More than anything," Dean explained, "a wendigo knows how to last long winters without food. It hibernates for years at a time, but when it's awake, it keeps its victims alive. It, uh, it stores them, so it can feed whenever it wants."

Having been a recent captive himself, Sam did not envy the missing campers' fates. He inadvertently pictured the secret laboratory back at the Stynes' safe house, where he was forced to watch Jacob harvest an eighteen-year-old girl. Her screams echoed in his mind, making him cringe. Of all the ways to die, no one should suffer like that, so if Sam could rescue Tommy, he wouldn't think twice—no matter the cost.

"If your brother's alive," Dean continued, "it's keeping him somewhere dark, hidden, and safe. We gotta track it back there."

"And then how do we stop it?" Haley demanded.

Dean made a face. "Well, guns are useless. So are knives." He showed off the beer bottle and lighter fluid, plus an old strip of cloth—prime ingredients for a Molotov Cocktail. "Basically, we gotta torch the sucker."

 **SPN**

 **(Lost Creek, Colorado … Friday, November 13, 2005)**

They tracked the monster for over a day, following an obvious trail of trees blemished with bloody claw marks. Sam sensed it was a trap, but didn't say anything. Wendigos were cunning predators, and they had no other means of finding it. Best not to frighten Haley or Ben until it was necessary.

At one point during the night, he again opened his mind and broadened his awareness. Maybe he could get a read on the damn thing and figure out where it lived. Immediately, he tuned into its lingering resent—Roy was the first person to ever dare attack it, and there would be hell to pay for such an offense. True, Roy was already dead, but that didn't mean it couldn't take out its anger on the rest of them. It was going to enjoy its hunt—lead them deep into its territory and play with them before feasting.

Sam's stomach turned at the twisted sentiment, but he pressed on, searching the wendigo's mind for useful information. The missing campers… Two out of three were dead. Sam didn't know what Tommy Collins looked like, so he couldn't identity the remaining victim, but whether he was Tommy or not, they had to save him. He was underground… in some kind of cavernous chamber… dangling by his wrists from the ceiling. Sam had no idea where to find him. The path from their location to the wendigo's lair was not at the forefront of the monster's mind, and Sam lacked the mental endurance to keep digging around for it. His head was starting to hurt, and before he could catch himself, he was doubled over, dry-heaving.

"Sam?" Dean was at his side in the blink of an eye, offering what little support he could. Later, when Sam reluctantly explained the cause of his fleeting ailment, Dean bristled. "All right, I'm only gonna say this once," he whispered to keep Haley and Ben from hearing. "I don't care how 'convenient' those abilities might be; I don't want you poking around some monster's melon. Ever. You don't need that kind of crap in your head, and it's not your responsibility. Understand?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Whatever."

In the morning, they picked up where they left off, searching for hours. Sam thought it would never end, but all too soon, they reached a small clearing that was perfectly lined with scarred trees—the wendigo was no doubt fabricating trails in every direction. If they followed the wrong one, God knows where it would lead.

Reaching the same conclusion, Dean paused, warily clutching his Molotov Cocktail. They eased into the clearing, taking stock of their surroundings. The wendigo was close, watching them, but Sam couldn't pinpoint its position—elusive bastard.

Suddenly, it growled behind them. Sam and Dean whipped around, but weren't fast enough. The damn thing rushed to their right, and they couldn't keep up. If that wasn't bad enough, it remained physically imperceptible, like a chameleon blending into its environment. Sam's heart hammered in his chest—he could only imagine how Haley and Ben must feel.

After teasing them with its presence, the wendigo fell silent. For a long, drawn-out moment, no one moved or uttered a word. But then Haley screamed, diving out of the way just in time to dodge the corpse that was plummeting from the canopy. She landed roughly on her back, and Sam bolted to her aid while Dean checked the body. "You okay?" He helped her up as the wendigo closed in, growling savagely.

"His neck's broke," Dean exclaimed, and Sam didn't have peer over to know it was Roy. "Okay, run!" He gave Sam a slight push to get him started while urging the others to move. "Go, go, go!" They took off as fast as their legs could carry them, inadvertently spreading out as they zigzagged around dense trees and other obstacles.

Sam tried to keep both Haley and Ben in his line of sight as they fled, but the girl was a strong, capable athlete while the boy was just a gawky teenager. It didn't take long before he tripped, falling flat on his face, and no one seemed to notice but Sam—and the monster.

Using a tree to stop his momentum, Sam doubled back to rescue the kid. He grabbed him by the waist, hauling him to his feet. "Come on! I gotcha! I gotcha!" When Sam first met Ben, he couldn't help but discern his loneliness. The Collins siblings were orphans; they didn't have anyone but each other. Ben was accustomed to Haley and Tommy watching out for him, but no one else, so when Sam—a stranger—went back for him, risking his own safety, Ben felt a confusing pang of deprivation.

But this was no time to analyze their inner demons. Dean and Haley were getting too far ahead, and they needed to catch up. With his long legs and remarkable agility, Sam could have easily covered the distance, but he refused to outstrip Ben. Instead, he brought up the rear, fully expecting the wendigo to pounce.

Somewhere ahead of them, Haley screamed. Ben frantically picked up his pace, and Sam prayed to hear a detonation. Please, please, please let Dean kill it!

Nothing. The abrupt silence was oppressive.

After running a few more yards, Ben lagged to a halt. "Haley!"

Sticking with him, Sam glanced around for signs of his brother. When he happened to look down, he caught sight of a white rag sticking out of a broken beer bottle. The Molotov Cocktail. The wendigo must have swiped it from Dean's grasp before he could wield it. Damn. Picking up the now useless weapon, Sam felt fresh waves of horror coursing through his veins. He turned in a helpless circle. "DEAN!"

 **SPN**

It was all Sam could do not to panic. Dean was in trouble! His big brother; his hero; his best friend! Sam wasn't sure what he would do if anything happened to Dean, especially this soon after losing Jessica and Cyrus. It would crush him. He'd have no one left but his dad… and Jacob.

Oh, hell no.

Realizing the wendigo would want to stash Dean and Haley somewhere safe, Sam assumed the path to its lair would finally be at the front of its mind. Accordingly, against Dean's wishes, he closed his eyes and concentrated on melding with the son of a bitch. It didn't take as long as he feared—the wendigo was ecstatic, and not the least bit concerned with—or even aware of—psychic scrutiny.

In each hand it clutched an ankle, dragging its two barely-conscious captives like rag dolls through the woods. They were the strong, healthy ones. The other two—Sam and Ben—were weak and helpless. (At least, that's what it thought after watching Sam dry-heave earlier.) With Dean and Haley out of the way, it would return for the little brothers, and it would taunt them, and play with them, and tenderize them. Then, it would dump them in front of their siblings, and tear the flesh from their bones, savoring every last bite. It would take its time, and Dean and Haley would have to watch, powerless to prevent it. Nothing short of their anguish would make up for Roy's audacity.

Eventually, it reached the weathered entrance to an abandoned mine, which must have been boarded up years ago. However, two of the wooden planks were missing, providing access to the main tunnel. Without regard for the red warning sign that indicated the presence of 'extremely toxic material,' the wendigo shoved in each of its captives, one at a time, before sidling in after them.

At that moment, Sam unwittingly lost his connection with the monster. He found himself back on the ground, head spinning, ears ringing, nose bleeding, while Ben braced his shoulders. The poor kid was trying not to freak, but with his sister gone, and his remaining companion suffering some kind of break-down, he was understandably a nervous wreck.

"Sam!? Sam! Come on, man, snap out of it! Don't do this to me!"

"S'okay… S'okay…" Moaning, Sam wiped the blood from his face and waited for the nausea to pass. Then, he met Ben's gaze. "I know where they are."

 **SPN**

It took Sam longer to recover than he expected, but since they couldn't afford to waste any time, Ben helped support his weight, and they trudged through the forest in the direction of the mine. Sam didn't bother trying to explain the source of his information, and Ben was too flustered to bother asking. The only thing he could think about was losing the rest of his family, and he knew his limitations well enough to realize he'd be completely screwed without Sam, leaving him no other choice but to follow his lead.

They kept mostly silent as they tracked the various landmarks Sam observed through the monster's eyes. Gradually, his strength returned, and when they finally reached the partially-blocked entrance, he was walking on his own again. Good thing, too. If he was going to challenge a wendigo in its own lair without a weapon to speak of, he'd have to be on top of his game.

Blatantly ignoring the "No Admittance" sign, Sam and Ben slipped through the broken boards into the side of the mountain, where they were swallowed up in darkness. Sam brandished his flashlight, and they cautiously ventured down an old railway through an inclined tunnel. Fortunately, the slope wasn't too steep, but the deeper they went, the more drifts they intersected, until they were far from the surface.

If that wasn't disconcerting enough, Sam could sense traces of their enemy all over the place—like a foul odor. This must be how dogs felt when dumped in some other animal's territory… especially a dangerous animal. It was suffocating, and Sam's perceptions shrank back into the safety of his own mind like a turtle hiding in its shell. How was it possible that his abilities could be an advantage and a handicap at the same time?

Ahead of them, something growled.

Sam switched off the flashlight and shuffled Ben out of the main tunnel into the nearest drift. They pressed their backs up against the jagged wall and waited, straining their ears. Did the monster see them? Or was it simply venting in the safety of its home? It had no reason to expect them here; after all, it never left a trail, and even if it did, they were too pathetic to find one. By all rights, they should still be lost in the woods, and now the monster was on its way back to collect them.

Breathing heavily, it strutted up the tunnel towards the entrance, and despite their better judgment, Sam and Ben both peered out to look. Through the shadows, they glimpsed an eerily emaciated figure with long, skeletal arms and razor-sharp claws. In the confines of the tunnel, it was slouched forward, but at full height, it had to be at least twelve-feet tall. Definitely not human. Ben started to whimper, compelling Sam to turn and plant his hand against the kid's mouth. Until the wendigo was a safe distance away, they remained perfectly still, but then, with the coast clear, they ducked back into the main tunnel and picked up their pace.

They were not prepared to step on an old covered-up ore pass—basically a hole where material could be dumped to a lower level in the mine. Their weight taxed the wooden boards, and with an alarming creak, everything collapsed. Sam had no idea how far they dropped, but the next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, dazed and aching from head to toe. He groaned, sitting up just in time to catch Ben as he scrambled away from a pile of human skulls.

"Hey, it's okay!" he assured the boy, perhaps falsely. "It's okay, it's okay." Ben was panting and shaking fiercely, but at least he wasn't hurt—thank God for small favors. Still, he couldn't tear his gaze from the grisly remains of past victims, and Sam could tell he was ready to throw up. Allowing him a short breather, Sam quietly took in their surroundings. Judging by the skeletons, this must be where the wendigo stored its food, which meant…

There!

Dean and Haley were both dangling a foot off the ground, suspended by their wrists with rope fastened to the ceiling. They were unconscious, but alive, and while Sam knew the wendigo wasn't ready to eat them, he sighed in relief. His brother was alive! But was he unharmed?

Nervous, Sam crossed the distance between them. He grasped Dean's jacket; examined his face; whispered his name. He couldn't remember Dean ever being so vulnerable before, and felt another rush of panic. What if he didn't wake up? How were they going to get out of here, especially when they couldn't expect John to save the day? This was all Sam's fault.

"Haley, wake up!" Ben had clambered over the uneven ground to his sister's side. He checked her pulse, desperately trying to rouse her.

"Dean!" Sam gave his brother a gentle shake, and Dean winced, moaning back to life. Sam steadied him. "Hey, you okay?"

Blinking, Dean processed the question. "Yeah," he decided, nodding forcefully. While Ben struggled to revive Haley, Sam produced his pocket knife and quickly freed his brother. He passed the blade to Ben and helped Dean stagger to a seat by the cavern wall, where their stolen luggage happened to be stored.

"You sure you're all right?" he asked when Dean held back an agonized groan.

"Yeah," he replied with typical nonchalance. "Yep. Where is he?"

"He's gone for now," Sam said, glancing around the chamber—just to make sure—while Ben approached from behind with his disoriented sister. He helped her sit and removed what remained of her restraints. Exhausted, she was close to passing out again, but suddenly, she caught sight of something that sufficiently jarred her, and she stood up in shock. With Ben's support, she limped towards the far corner where another unconscious prisoner was dangling in the same fashion.

One of the missing campers. Their brother. Haley shuddered, too upset to control her tears. "Tommy…"

Sharing their distress, Sam followed. Ben was on the verge of breaking down, and he stopped short, overwhelmed. Sam gripped his shoulder while Haley reached out a hand to brush Tommy's face.

He instantly jerked awake, gasping in terror.

Haley recoiled with a startled cry.

They stared at each other, eyes wide in disbelief. Then Haley glanced back at Sam. "Cut him down!" He happily obliged, and as the three of them settled Tommy on the ground, Sam noticed Dean riffling through one of their hiking packs. Whatever he found apparently excited him, and he climbed awkwardly to his feet.

"Check it out!" He brandished two flare guns, and for the first time in weeks, Sam grinned.

"Those'll work."

Dean smiled, twirling the weapons like a cocky cowboy.

 **SPN**

Armed or not, as long as they remained so deep underground, they were at a considerable disadvantage. Tommy had gone for days without food or water, and lacked the strength to walk on his own—he required both Haley and Ben's support just to stand, which left Sam and Dean as their only protection. To make things worse, they had no idea where the exit was—they found a tunnel leading out of the chamber, but as they followed it, they passed numerous drifts and crosscuts, and could only hope they weren't in some twisted maze.

Inevitably, the wendigo returned, unable to find its quarry in the woods, and frustrated by their disappearance. It growled above them, making them stop in their tracks. Sam raised his gun, and Dean braced himself for an imminent confrontation. "Looks like someone's home for supper."

"We'll never outrun it," Haley said, straining against her brother's weight. Dean met her gaze and made a few mental calculations before turning to Sam.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Obviously, they couldn't shoot the son of a bitch until it showed itself. They needed to lure it from the shadows; they needed bait. Sam tensed, but honestly, what other choice did they have? "Yeah, I think so."

Dean edged forward, then looked back. "All right, listen to me. Stay with Sam. He's gonna get you out of here."

"What are you gonna do?" Haley demanded, which only earned her a wink.

Dean twisted around and hastily marched into an intersecting corridor. "Chow time, you freaky bastard! Yeah, that's right, bring it on, baby, I taste _good!_ " He signaled for them to run, and vanished around the corner.

Immediately, Sam took a different passageway, checking for danger as he went. Haley, Ben, and Tommy hesitated, concern for Dean written on their faces. Sam appreciated their sentiments, but they had to focus. "All right, come on! Hurry!"

They scrambled forward as quickly as they could manage, which wasn't saying much. Sam took the lead, gun at the ready, hating how lost he felt. Perhaps he could psychically reconnect with the wendigo—it knew every inch of its territory, including escape routes—but he quickly discounted the idea. If he made himself sick again, who would save Haley, Ben, and Tommy?

More growling. The damn thing was stalking _them_ , not Dean.

They reached an intersection with a railway leading up, and as soon as Sam cleared it, he regarded Haley. "Get him outta here."

"Sam, no!" she objected.

"Go," he insisted, and when she faltered, he raised his voice. "GO! Go!"

"Come on, Haley," Ben said, urging her to obey. They shuffled Tommy up the tunnel while Sam backtracked several paces. He took cover against the jagged wall and waited for the wendigo to pursue its prey. He just needed one clear shot.

"Come on," he breathed to himself. "Come on."

Silence.

He peered into the shadows where he had heard the growling, where he expected the monster to emerge. But it didn't come.

His brow furrowed in confusion. Where the hell was the damn thing?

A heavy footstep scattered loose rocks along the ground behind him. With a pit in his stomach, Sam turned his head. The face staring back at him resembled an orc from _Lord of the Rings_. It shrieked savagely.

Caught off guard, Sam whirled away from it, landing heavily on his back. He shot the flare in its general direction, but it easily sidestepped the blast. Crap!

Weaponless, Sam scrambled to his feet and took off at a sprint. In a matter of seconds, he caught up with Haley, Ben, and Tommy. "Come on! Hurry, hurry, hurry!" He shoved Haley forward, glancing over his shoulder to see the wendigo in pursuit.

They ran. The wendigo growled. Haley screamed.

They weren't going to make it much farther, not with Tommy in such poor condition, and even if they could, they abruptly found the tunnel blocked by some kind of cave in. They were trapped.

Cursing, Sam could only think of one defense. "Get behind me!" Turning, he faced the monster with his arms outstretched to shield Haley, Ben, and Tommy. It wasn't much protection, but it was all he had.

The wendigo approached maliciously. Its growling turned into a triumphant howl as it savored their defeat. But before it could pounce, Dean appeared behind it, gun raised.

"HEY!"

The wendigo turned.

Dean fired the flare.

The shot blasted straight into the monster's abdomen. It screamed, its body igniting from the inside out. As the flames traveled up from its ribs to its head, it writhed its shoulders in pure agony.

Sam should have seen it coming. Just like when Jessica died, just like when Roy died, his mind absorbed the wendigo's fate. He experienced its fear, its suffering, its death, and because of his proximity, the intensity was devastating. He crumbled to the ground, out of breath, and a heartbeat later, he succumbed to sweet oblivion.

 **SPN**

 _ **Surprise! :-)**_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	10. Payment

**SPN**

"Sam."

Her voice was faint. Distant. Ethereal. She called for him through the darkness like a benevolent angel, and he longed for her with all his heart. _Jessica_ _…_

"Sam, where are you?" she asked patiently, unafraid. Wherever they were, whatever this empty void might be, at least it was safe, quiet, peaceful. No one could hurt him here, and he had felt content to float in limbo for as long as possible, until she beckoned. Now, he glanced up hopefully. "Sam, please. Come to me."

He hesitated. Those last three words… They could be treacherous. The hunter in him knew better than to listen. Jessica was gone. This was either a dream, or something far worse.

"Sam, where are you?"

God, he missed her. Desperate, he answered. "Jess!"

She appeared across from him, with her back turned, wearing a pink knee-length dress with white polka dots. Her skirt and hair billowed, though there wasn't any wind. "Sam? Where are you?"

"Behind you!"

She turned. Sam's heart skipped a beat. She wasn't Jessica!

Suddenly, the darkness ebbed away, and he found himself in a cramped, disinfected room, surrounded by medical equipment. Sunlight poured through a nearby window, making him wince, and it took a moment to realize he was resting on a hospital bed, beneath crisp white sheets and a blue blanket. The rails were up, and his wrists were restrained with leather cuffs.

"Wha—?" Sam lifted his head, glancing around in confusion. Where the hell was he? "Dean? DEAN!?"

"He's not here," came a soft, feminine voice. Elizabeth Styne was standing in the doorway. She had changed out of her usual tea-length dress (preferred by her family) and now wore boots, jeans, and a maroon biker jacket. Horrified, Sam shrank back as far as the cuffs would allow, heart pounding in his chest. Elizabeth never meant him any harm—it was Caroline who murdered Jessica—but if she had found him, then Jacob couldn't be far behind.

"Leave me alone!"

"I have to speak with you, Sam." She sounded remorseful, but resolved, and as she approached his bed, he twisted his wrists, tugging miserably on his restraints. "Please hear me out." She took a seat next to him, pressing her hand over his, heedless of his discomfort. "I'm sorry about Jessica. I really am. I never wanted her to get hurt."

The Stynes could block off and manipulate their thoughts and feelings, making it impossible to gauge her sincerity. Sam shook his head. "You tricked me. You used her to find me."

Elizabeth sighed. "You were too well hidden. It was the only way you would answer me, and I won't apologize for that. I'm doing you a favor; one I can hardly afford."

"Where's Jacob?"

"Relax, Sam. You're still safe. I managed to escape Jacob, and I promise, he has no idea where you are. He doesn't even know we're talking, and I'm not going to expose you."

"Okay…" Sam's gaze flicked uncertainly from her to the leather cuffs and back again. "If that's true, untie me."

"No," she objected. "You're still unconscious, Sam. We're inside your mind. If I untie you, you might slip away from me, or wake up, and I can't let you go till we finish our conversation."

Sam groaned, turning his head to avoid looking at her. This sucked. His mind should be a refuge, not a prison. Was nowhere safe from this damn family? But at least it was Elizabeth and not her cousin. "What do you want?" he finally asked.

"To thank you," she said. "You killed Victor. You rescued me from a fate worse than death."

Sam shuddered, flashing back to the reception in the grand ballroom where Victor tried to molest him. "Sorry, Elizabeth, but I didn't do it for you."

"Perhaps not, but I still owe you a debt. I wish I could take credit for rescuing your loved ones at the Roadhouse last week, but that would be misleading." She pulled her father's amulet out from underneath her shirt. "I stole this to protect myself from the magical side effects of my escape, but with it, all the ingrained discipline I've always required to control my powers became irrelevant. The amulet took the liberty of unleashing my full potential, and I wasn't prepared for the outbreak. From what I recall, it was more destructive than I would have liked—and certainly not intentional—but at least it gave me the opportunity to kill my father while saving yours."

William Styne had been a monster just like the rest of his family, and Sam was not sorry to hear about his death, but still, how could Elizabeth speak so callously about murdering her own father? "Great. Sounds like we both benefited from each other's self-preservation. How about we call it even and you let me go?"

"Not yet," she replied. "Look, Sam, I'm not proud of my part in your suffering, and I hate to say it, but it's going to get worse. A lot worse. After everything, I owe you an explanation."

He peered over at her apprehensively. "What are you talking about?"

"It's nothing personal," she insisted. "And it's not vengeance. It's just that I love Thomas, and I'd do anything to see him again."

"You told me your cousin burned him alive with magic and holy oil. You don't even know if he survived."

"Exactly. That's my point. Sam, I've already crossed the line; my family will never forgive me. Thomas is all I have left in the world, and restoring him is the only way I'll ever find true happiness. I'll do it, too. I already have a plan. But the price… I'm so sorry, but you're not going to like the price."

Sam stiffened. "What's the price?"

She told him. Her words were candid and contrite, and the more she explained, the more Sam panicked. By the time she finished, he was fighting his restraints with everything he had, but the cuffs held fast.

"No!" Frantic tears welled up in his eyes, and he kicked his legs under the sheets in frustration, but couldn't even manage to shake the bed. "Are you insane!?" He didn't wait for a response. "DEAN!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, until he ran out of breath.

"You won't recall any of this when you wake up," Elizabeth said when he finally collapsed against his pillow. He glanced at her in unbridled fear, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. "But deep down, in your subconscious, you'll know, and perhaps that will be enough for you to stop me. But that's all I'm willing to risk. It's more than I should have risked, which means my debt to you is paid. I'm sorry, Sam. I really do wish you the best."

"Elizabeth, please! Just think about this! Think about the consequences!"

She shook her head. "It's time for you to wake up, Sam." Rising to her feet, she reached out her hand and covered his eyes.

"No! Elizabeth, don't!" He pulled as far away from her as he could, bucking wildly, but she was relentless. His bed began spinning, and moments later, he was floating upwards toward the sky.

 **SPN**

 **(Lost Creek, Colorado … Saturday, November 14, 2005)**

Groaning, Sam awoke in a hospital bed with no memory of how he got there. The rails were up, but his wrists were loose—a strange thing to notice. His head throbbed, his face was flushed, and his stomach hurt, which effectively discouraged him from getting up. "Dean…?"

"Hey there, Sammy…" His brother appeared next to him, at once nervous and relieved. "Take it easy, kiddo. You've been out for nearly twenty-four hours. Had me worried sick! You okay?"

Sam hesitated, considering the question. No, he wasn't okay. Something was wrong. Terribly, unspeakably wrong. But he couldn't put his finger on it. Whatever upset him was starting to recede, like a fleeting dream, and the more he tried to remember, the faster it evaporated. Damn.

Suddenly, his thoughts turned back to the woods. He'd been hunting a wendigo—which Dean managed to kill—but they'd been trapped in a mine deep underground, far from civilization. Sam wasn't the only one injured. "The Collinses! Haley, Ben… Are they all right? What about Tommy? Did he make it?" Sam struggled to push himself into a seated position, but Dean stopped him.

"Wow, easy there, Sasquatch!" He showed Sam a button that elevated the top half of the bed, so he could sit without having to exert himself. As they adjusted the height, Dean said, "Tommy's gonna be just fine. He's a few doors down; Haley and Ben are with him, and they're very grateful. Worried about you, too."

"Sorry."

"For what?" Dean feigned irritation. "For making me haul your ass outta danger?" Then he winked. "Don't mention it. I've got Haley and a whole bunch of hot nurses eating straight outta my hands. They think I'm a nice, sensitive hero." He grinned, and Sam managed a weak smile in return.

Before they could say anything else, a tall woman in blue scrubs with an auburn braid sauntered into the room. When she saw Sam awake, her eyes lit up. "Mr. Cole, it's about time! My name's Alyson; I'm your PA. How do you feel?" She proceeded to check his vitals while asking various questions about his health—especially about the fresh scars on his arm and leg—they looked suspiciously like gunshot wounds.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah… Some burglars broke into my apartment two weeks ago. I was the only one home. But at least they didn't kill me, right?" Dean came up with the story after leaving Bobby's house, just in case. They could never be too prepared for inquisitive authority figures.

Alyson pursed her lips, glancing between the brothers in blatant disapproval. Just because their stories lined up didn't mean they were off the hook. "And whose idea was it to go hiking near Blackwater Ridge?"

"Mine," Sam guiltily assured her. "I've been planning it since the beginning of October. Had to request time off work and everything. I mean, they're just flesh wounds, right? Why should they ruin my vacation?" He tried to look embarrassed while Dean rolled his eyes.

"See what I have to put up with?" he complained. "Kid thinks he's invincible. I tried compromising with him, taking him out to a cabin, but obviously that wasn't good enough. Next thing I know, he's sneaking out for a nature walk, and I have to be the bad guy, trying to 'boss him around.' He's impossible to reason with! He never listens!"

It was Sam's turn to feign irritation. "How was I supposed to know we'd run into an 800-pound grizzly?" (It was a bit of a gamble, but he couldn't think of any other explanation Dean would have given the authorities for their predicament.) "I mean, first burglars, then a bear? What are the odds?"

"It was more like 900 pounds," Dean corrected him with a death glare. "And you're lucky to be alive!" They continued to squabble like ordinary brothers for Alyson's benefit while she observed, deep in thought. She wasn't the first medical professional to question the nature of their injuries, and they hoped their behavior would distract her long enough for them to check out, against medical advice if necessary.

"Well, Sam," she finally interjected. "Aside from several cuts and bruises, I'm happy to report we haven't found anything wrong with you." Sam forced a smile, hardly surprised that psychic episodes weren't diagnosable—at least not conventionally. "Dr. Wilkinson's convinced you simply pushed yourself too far, too fast, and your body wore out on you… which could be the case… or not. Personally, I'd like to keep you here a few days, just to be safe, and I'd like the name of your primary care physician."

Dean frowned. "I already gave you that information."

Alyson scoffed. "Please. You think I don't know who Mark Kendall is? Or _Great White_? At first I thought it was a coincidence. The name's not that unusual, is it? But then I looked up the directory at Sioux Falls General, and neither the name nor the number you gave us matches anyone at that hospital. You lied on your brother's admission forms, and if Haley Collins wasn't such a good friend of mine, I'd report you in a heartbeat."

Sam's eyes widened while Dean grimaced. So much for distracting her!

Dean cleared his throat. "You, um… You're very thorough for a PA."

"You don't know the half of it," Alyson snapped. "The Wilkinsons aren't known for taking women seriously, so I have to work twice as hard to earn half the respect of the men around here, and I don't appreciate you trying to pull a fast one over me when I'm just trying to help you! So on the off-chance that exhaustion and stress weren't responsible for your brother's collapse, I would like to consult with whoever treated his past injuries!"

Dean hesitated, obviously caught off guard.

Alyson blinked, crossing her arms. But then, as they scrutinized each other, she eventually came to a jaw-dropping realization. "Oh, don't tell me! He _was_ treated by a professional, wasn't he!?" She focused back on Sam. "You _did_ go to a hospital for those gunshots, didn't you!?"

Sam and Dean traded nervous looks. This could get very complicated, very quickly.

After a beat, Dean confessed, "We don't have insurance."

Alyson didn't buy into that for a moment, and her face flushed indignantly. "Are you insane!? You're not criminals, are you?"

Technically, John and Dean were both guilty of credit card scams and countless misdemeanors, but those weren't 'criminal' by Dean's definition. "What? No, of course not!" He took a deep breath, and resorted to his back-up plan. "Are right, look. Here's the truth." He sat down with his best tragic expression and ran a hand through his short hair. "About seven years ago, our parents died, and Sam was sent to live with our uncle. I didn't have a say in the matter, and it wasn't a healthy situation. The man's a dick, to put it lightly."

Alyson narrowed her eyes, but after everything with the Stynes, it wasn't hard for Sam to fake a sufficiently scared and vulnerable attitude, which began to win her over.

Dean continued, "I had to get Sam out of there, and we've been on the run ever since. You have to understand, there's no one we can trust. I'm just a high school drop-out, and _he's_ a pillar of the community. _He_ can get away with anything, and if he finds us, we're screwed. It's all we can do to stay one step ahead of him."

Alyson quickly filled in the blanks, regarding Sam in astonishment. "Is he the one who shot you?"

"No," Sam muttered, averting his eyes. "He wasn't there. But he's got bounties out for Dean, and I guess the thug who found us mixed us up, maybe cause I'm taller."

"And that's why you were in the forest," she concluded. "You're trying to hide from your uncle."

Dean nodded. "Please. You have to cover for us, just till Sam's back on his feet. Then we'll be out of your hair, I promise."

"We should call the police," she objected, but Dean shook his head.

"You think we haven't tried that?"

Alyson covered her mouth, considering her options in genuine dismay. Sam felt bad about lying to her—she was obviously a kind woman, and their deception might get her in trouble. For her sake, they needed to get the hell out of here as soon as possible, before anyone else went looking for Sam's medical records.

"All right," she finally agreed. "I'll help you out. For Haley."

 **SPN**

 **(Lost Creek, Colorado … Saturday, November 14, 2005)**

They didn't stick around for long goodbyes. As much as Sam wanted to see for himself that Haley, Ben, and Tommy were okay, he knew better than to press his luck. Alyson might change her mind, or someone else might discover their fraudulence. Consequently, as soon as they were left to themselves, Sam crawled out of bed and fought through his lingering nausea to get back in his street clothes. Dean offered plenty of support, and soon enough, they were sneaking through the halls in search of an exit.

It wasn't fair, hunting. When you risk your life for another person—even a stranger—it's hard not to make an emotional connection, so when the time comes to leave town, it's always painful. Now that Sam was a psychic, such feelings were even more intense. He liked Ben, and after sharing the teenager's fear, loneliness, and deprivation, he didn't want to just abandon him. Ben was smart; he had a promising future, plus Haley and Tommy, but that didn't make adolescence any easier, and Sam wanted to help. Unfortunately, the hunting lifestyle did not foster deep and abiding friendships—at least not with civilians—and Sam didn't have a choice. He had to leave Lost Creek.

"So," Dean said once they 'borrowed' a car for the drive back to their cabin (and the Impala). "Are you planning to pass out every time we hunt something?"

"No," Sam grumbled, staring out the passenger window. "I think… I tapped into the wendigo's mind after it took you and Haley. It was the only way I could think of tracking it back to its lair."

"Damn it, Sammy!" Dean pounded the steering wheel in agitation. "I thought I warned you not to do that!"

"If I didn't, we'd all be dead!" Sam argued defensively. "But I must not have fully disconnected from it. I think, on some level, I was still attuned to the damn thing. That's gotta be why I had such a strong reaction when you killed it. But now I know what to expect, so next time, I'll be ready for it."

Dean gave him a stern look. "There's not gonna be a next time if you start making this a habit. I don't want you mind-reading anything remotely evil, you understand?"

"Fine."

"I mean it, Sam."

"I know that!"

They glared at each other, then looked away. Sam couldn't blame Dean for his misgivings, and he appreciated his brother's concern, but why did he have to treat him like a child?

They stewed in sullen silence for a good fifteen minutes, during which time, Sam's impatience gradually gave way to a nagging anxiety. Something was still wrong. He remembered waking up in the hospital with such terrible, unspeakable dread, but why? Did he have a premonition? No, his premonitions were always so vivid, so distinct… But this was different. He had a bad taste in his mouth, and no idea where it came from.

All he knew was that he had to do something, and soon, or there'd be hell to pay.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author**_ _ **'**_ _ **s Note:**_ _Uh-oh! I wonder what Elizabeth_ _'s up to?_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	11. Obsession

**SPN**

 **(Abilene, Texas … Tuesday, November 17, 2005)**

Alone, in the early hours of the morning, a biker pulled up in front of a derelict motel on the outskirts of town. Even for Jacob Styne—who spent thirteen months in a federal super-max prison and could therefore tolerate cheap accommodations—this dump was shamefully substandard. Why would he choose to lodge here after a constant string of reputable inns? He was breaking pattern, which could easily spell trouble.

Wary and alert, Benny Lafitte parked his motorcycle and took a deep breath in. Vampires were known to be excellent trackers—once they catch a person's scent, they can follow it indefinitely, and considering Jacob's 'enhancements,' Benny had no problem distinguishing him from other humans. He could run, but sooner or later, Benny would catch up. It was only a matter of time.

Unfortunately, it was starting to look like their next encounter wouldn't be for awhile yet, cause the trail was getting cold. Jacob had certainly been here, no doubt about that, but he must have moved on hours ago. As a rule, ordinary humans required an excessive amount of sleep, but Jacob was far from ordinary, and he always seemed to be a step ahead. It was kind of embarrassing, to be honest. John, Bobby and Rufus were depending on Benny to find the bastard. They only agreed to let him off his leash so they wouldn't slow him down, but it wasn't making much of a difference. Jacob remained at large, and Benny was getting nowhere.

After a moment's consideration, he decided to investigate his quarry's motel room. At this rate, ten to fifteen minutes wouldn't make or break his pursuit. He could afford a brief delay, especially if it unearthed a new lead. After all, if Jacob was breaking pattern, maybe he was getting sloppy. Maybe he left something behind. A clue of some sort. Of course, it could always be a trap, but Benny's gut told him otherwise. Something was definitely different about this place, but it wasn't dangerous.

He followed Jacob's distasteful smell to a room on the corner of the building and shimmied the lock on the door. Inside, he immediately noticed the gift waiting for him on the bare mattress. A girl, eighteen or nineteen years old, was sprawled out, spread-eagle, with her wrists and ankles chained to the bed legs. Wrapped only in a towel, with a blindfold around her eyes and a pink ball gag stuffed in her mouth, she was exactly the kind of morsel most vampires drooled over, and Benny flinched at the sight.

No wonder Jacob chose to occupy this cesspool. What better place to confine a captive? As long as the room was paid for, the proprietor was likely to ignore any sounds he might hear through the walls. Even muffled cries.

Obviously terrified, the girl whimpered and squirmed as much as her restraints allowed, which jarred Benny out of his initial daze. Rushing to her side, he gently removed the blindfold. "It's okay, darling. I've got you. I'm not gonna hurt you." She stared up at him with tears in her hazel eyes. "My name's Benny. I'm gonna get you outta here." He reached behind her head to unbuckle the gag.

"Please don't hurt me!" she sobbed while the phone on the bedside table began to ring. The sudden, shrill noise made her shriek, and Benny glared at it suspiciously. He could well imagine who might be calling.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he reassured the girl, slipping out of his pea coat and draping it over her body. He hoped its weight and warmth would comfort her. "I'm gonna see who's on the phone, and then I'm getting you outta here. You don't have to be afraid. I promise, you're safe now. Everything's gonna be all right." She wasn't convinced, but she didn't scream, so Benny plucked up the phone and cradled it between his ear and shoulder. "Who's this?"

"I should be asking you that, sir." The voice on the other end was dripping with condescension. "Of course, I finally know _what_ you are, but I can't figure why a fang like you would help a hunter like John-boy. It just ain't right."

Benny scrounged through his pockets for a lock pick and proceeded to fiddle with the shackle around the girl's left wrist. "You must be Jacob Styne. I wish I could say it was a pleasure meeting you back in Nebraska, sir, but that would be an outrageous lie."

"Perhaps I can change your mind," he countered. "Please. Consider that there girl a peace offering. Somehow, against all odds, you've managed to gain the Winchesters' trust, which puts you in a unique position to be of service to me. And I'm prepared to compensate you most generously for your efforts, sir, you can rest assured of that."

Benny scoffed. "Well, thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Styne. I've had you on the run for over a week now. Your family's been disgraced. Most of your relatives have been slaughtered. Your own cousin betrayed you. I can't come up with the slightest reason to fear you, and if you think you can tempt me with your 'peace offerings,' you don't know me at all."

"I see," Jacob muttered. Meanwhile, the shackle snapped open, and Benny reached for the one around the girl's other wrist. Jacob sighed. "Well, you're not wrong, I suppose. The Stynes have seen better days. But mark my words, I will take back everything I've lost, and restore my family's reputation, and if you get in my way, I will personally drown you in dead man's blood. Don't underestimate me, vampire. I'm not a forgiving man."

"You're not a man at all," Benny retorted. "Men have courage. Honor."

"Like you'd know anything about that."

"And they don't make threats over the phone. They confront their enemies face-to-face. Why don't you come out and fight me, Mr. Styne? If I'm such a nuisance, why not crush me and get it over with?"

"You speak of honor even as you plot to provoke me into a compromising situation. Clever, but I won't fall for it. Just keep in mind, if you insist on stalking me, I'll start leaving behind other gifts that aren't as sweet as pretty little girls. You've been warned, vampire. Back off while you still can."

The call abruptly disconnected, and Benny rolled his eyes. The second shackle snapped open and he helped the girl sit up. She still watched him like a skittish child, but gradually, hope was replacing fear. He smiled. "You know it's filth like him that gives southerners a bad name. Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Well, that's a relief." He moved down to her ankles, where he finished liberating her. He would have to report this to the hunters. Jacob might be on the defensive, but he was also on the verge of retaliating, and the collateral damage could be devastating. Now, as much as ever, they would have to exercise extreme caution.

 **SPN**

 **(Texas … Tuesday, November 17, 2005)**

Driving north on U.S. 277 with brand new windows installed in the Mack truck's sleeper cab, Jacob silently weighed his options. How the hell did John Winchester recruit a vampire? And not just any vampire, but a loyal vampire? It didn't make any sense. But then again, John was not your average hunter. He was a legacy descended from the Men of Letters, and the basic rules did not apply to him.

He had to be killed. Not only was he dangerous, but he had to pay for his crimes. For murdering so many of Jacob's kin. Aunt Caroline. Earl. Roy. Colton. Clyde. Roscoe. Eli. Not to mention Monroe and Eldon, Jacob's own father and brother. John Winchester was more of a threat than Elizabeth, Azazel, the FBI, and any of the family's other rivals—combined. Jacob hated him with every fiber of his being, and wanted nothing more than to snap his neck.

Dean might still be worth sacrificing, if Jacob could teach himself how to perform the reincarnation ritual, but not John. Not after all this. Besides, Jacob didn't know if he even cared about reincarnation anymore. What was the point? Unless he could make proper Stynes out of Cyrus and Sam, who did he have to share the future with?

Cyrus and Sam… They were all Jacob had left, and whether they realized it or not, he'd do anything for them. He would burn down the entire damn country for them. He just wanted his family back. Was that too much to ask?

"Jacob," Cyrus whispered meekly from the back of the cab. "I wanna go home."

Big surprise. "I know you do, Cy. But you've gotta understand, we don't have anything to go home to. Our family's been ruined, so we have to start from scratch. I'm not gonna lie, it might take awhile, but we're Stynes. We always persevere. I promise, we'll make it through this nightmare, and if it's the last thing I do, we'll rescue our brother and reclaim our fortune. Just you wait."

"Yes sir."

Jacob's thoughts drifted back to Sam, and he tried to comprehend his bond with the boy. At first, the young Winchester was just a captive, fun to play with, but nothing more. Then, Azazel gave the Stynes custody of him, and as John waged war against the family, Sam became a consolation prize—one that Jacob treasured. His year in prison heightened his obsession, but even then, Sam remained more of a trophy than a brother. It wasn't until they got to know each other in the Stynes' safe house that their relationship really took off.

In some ways, Jacob needed Sam. He had a gaping hole in his chest from the loss of Eldon—and Elizabeth's treachery only made things worse. Having someone like Sam to control, nurture, teach, and discipline gave Jacob a sense of purpose, power, and excitement. In some ways, Sam made his life worth living.

But there was more to it than that. After all, Jacob still had Cyrus to meet those needs. However, strange as it sounded, Sam was more important to him than the seven-year-old. Cyrus might be blood, which meant the world to the Stynes, but at some point during his latest captivity, Sam became something far greater than even blood. Something precious. Jacob couldn't explain it, but one thing he knew without question. Sam was _his_.

On some level, Sam knew it, too. When Victor made his first move on the boy, Sam telepathically cried out to Jacob for help—Jacob, not Dean—and they shared a psychic connection unlike anything they could describe. Oh, they belonged together, and the longer they were apart, the more Jacob craved him.

 _Come on, Sammy. Where are you? Let me in. Or else._

 **SPN**

 **(Wisconsin … Friday, November 27, 2005)**

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and while most Americans were out bargain-hunting, Jacob and Cyrus found themselves inside an old barn in the middle of nowhere. The woman who owned the property was dead, along with her children, but her stable boy—a young man in his twenties—was tied up on the ground, moaning through his gag. Cyrus couldn't stop staring at him while Jacob painted occult symbols on the wooden floor.

Supposedly, somewhere on the farm, a devil's gate had been dormant for generations. Jacob might not have Elizabeth's talent for the dark arts, but he wasn't completely incompetent. He could crack open the door just enough to summon a single demon from the Pit. It wouldn't even be that difficult—Monroe had trained him well.

Satisfied with his progress, Jacob stood and brandished his knife. Chanting in ancient Sumerian, he sliced the blade through his palm and drizzled blood on the floor. Immediately, the symbols shimmered with an unholy light, and a fiery portal burst open like a popping bubble. Startled, Cyrus ducked for cover behind the partially-open door to an empty stall. Meanwhile, the stable boy wriggled away from Jacob as quickly as he could.

He didn't get far. A surge of black smoke poured out of the portal, circled around the barn, and finally rushed toward the prisoner. It passed through his gag, entering his mouth, and possessing his body. His eyes turned black, and he easily broke his restraints. As Jacob closed the portal, the demon removed the gag, climbed to his feet, and cracked his neck. "Ooh. That felt good."

"You're welcome," Jacob said, turning to face him. He knew enough about hell to appreciate how torturous it was, even for demons, and Shax had spent the last month trapped there, courtesy of John Winchester. "It's good to see you, old friend. Sorry it took so long. I only just learned of your exorcism, and came as quickly as I could."

"I'm sure you did," Shax sneered. His meat-suit was handsome enough, built like Dean, with a clean face and a brown side-parted pompadour, but he wasn't nearly as intimidating as the last one. Jacob briefly wondered if the demon would choose to keep him or trade him in for someone else.

"My family has always admired your work, sir," he assured the evil artist. The Stynes regularly employed him to tattoo their wrists with the family crest. "And I hope our customer loyalty has likewise earned your favor, cause I could use your help right about now."

Shax nodded, unsurprised. "With the Winchesters? John seemed pretty adamant about hunting y'all when he sent me downstairs."

"Oh, he'll get what's coming to him," Jacob vowed. "But what I need has more to do with his son."

Shax grinned. "Sammy? He was such a pleasure to decorate. I wonder if you'd let me slap some more ink on him, free of charge? It's the least I can do for his daddy's transgressions."

Jacob chuckled. "I'm sure we can arrange that. The boy's forgotten his place, and could use the reminder. But first we need to find him, and that's where you come in." Shax raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms expectantly, so Jacob continued. "I've tried everything I can think of to track him down, but somehow, he eludes me. You, on the other hand? You've blended your very own demonic soot into your ink recipe, so every tattoo you produce contains traces of yourself. I have a part of you on my wrist. So do each of my relatives. So does Sam. I reckon that means you're linked to us, perhaps faintly, but all the same… I reckon you could pinpoint any of our locations if you really wanted to. Am I wrong?"

"That would be a breach of privacy," Shax objected, somewhat playfully. "You should take another look at our Terms and Conditions. They specifically state that I've released a portion of my essence to my customer and will not attempt to pursue or reclaim any amount after the fact. What you're asking is forbidden." He rubbed his chin. "Then again, my business was never with Sam, but with Monroe. My condolences, by the way."

Jacob bristled. "You're too kind."

Shax smirked. "Assuming your father left the boy in your custody, you can grant permission for me to overlook those Terms and Conditions. I'd be happy to find him for you. Consider it payment for busting me out of jail. I owe you for that."

Jacob felt his mouth watering. "Shax. I could kiss you."

"Good. How else are we gonna seal our deal?" He glanced around the barn in distaste. "But not here. Too much nature. Makes me sick. Can't we hash out the details in a proper city? Where are we, anyway?"

Jacob shrugged. "Wisconsin. If you prefer, I have connections in Green Bay."

Shax made a face. "Eew. Well, it's not ideal, but I guess I'll manage. Shall we hit the road?"

"Cyrus!" Jacob eagerly fetched his brother from his hiding place in the empty stall. "Let's go, Cy!" The boy met his gaze in alarm, but Jacob hardly noticed his expression. "It's time for a little reunion."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Show of hands! Who wants Jacob to get Sam back?_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	12. Rabbi Bass

_**Author's Note:**_ _Quick disclaimer… I_ _'_ _m not very familiar with Judaism, but I_ _'m doing my best to portray each of these characters with respect. If you notice any mistakes, they were not intentional, and I apologize in advance._

 **SPN**

 **(Madison, Wisconsin … Monday, November 30, 2005)**

Wisconsin's state capital had a population of 223,440, and considering Sam's heightened perceptions, it wasn't Dean's idea to pass through, much less spend the week. But Sam insisted, claiming he felt fine despite the psychic buzz. "I've had over a month now to adjust, and I swear, it doesn't hurt anymore. In fact, it's nice to have some background noise, you know? The quiet's been getting to me."

If Dean knew his brother at all, it wasn't the quiet getting to him, but actually their last case, which struck a little too close to home. They were up by Lake Manitoc hunting what turned out to be the vengeful spirit of a murdered boy. It was seeking retribution by drowning the family members of the men who killed it—Bill Carlton and Sheriff Jake Devins.

Six months ago, it drowned the sheriff's son-in-law, Christopher Barr, leaving behind a single witness—the victim's kid, Lucas, who inadvertently wreaked havoc on Sam's emotions. Understandably traumatized by the death of his father, Lucas suffered from debilitating fear and selective mutism. Sam might have been able to block out the kid's distress, but the supernatural experience gave Lucas enough of his own psychic sensitivity to latch onto Sam for dear life. Their connection proved overwhelming, and Dean found himself picking up the slack while Sam came to grips with more heartache than he ever deserved.

Eventually, Bill Carlton and Sheriff Devins each gave themselves up to the spirit, which appeased it. Lucas and his mother, Andrea, were spared, and the lake returned to normal. Of course, it wasn't much of a win. Too many people died. But hopefully, closure would bring forgiveness, and forgiveness would bring healing. When Sam and Dean said goodbye to Lucas and Andrea, the kid was talking, and the mom was smiling. The worst was behind them.

Sam, however, was a different story. He remained as melancholy as ever, burdened by the weight of the demon, the Stynes, and a perpetual 'bad vibe' that he couldn't explain. It didn't help that Lucas was around Cyrus' age, reminding Sam of his broken promise—a betrayal he would no doubt regret for the rest of his life. Dean wished he could find the words to comfort his brother, but that was never his forte, especially when Sam wasn't in the mood to talk. They left Lake Manitoc in silence, and took refuge in a Madison motel against Dean's better judgment.

Thanksgiving came and went, unacknowledged by the Winchesters. After all, what did they have to celebrate? Sam continued to mourn Jessica, and Dean felt his father's absence as painfully as ever. So when the holiday traffic began abating on Monday, they were more than ready for a change in scenery.

"Where to next?" Dean asked, joining his brother at the small table in the corner of their room. He had just returned from a coffee run, and wasn't the least bit surprised to find Sam slumped over his laptop, researching God knew what, exactly as he left him. "Any leads?" He placed a vanilla latte with a double shot of espresso next to the computer—it might not be Sam's typical order, but it would do him some good.

"Yeah, I think so," Sam said, eagerly snatching up the drink. He took an unsuspecting swig and nearly spat it back out. Dean smirked, which naturally earned him a dirty look. "Thanks." Sam dropped the coffee back on the table and shook his head.

"You're welcome," Dean said proudly. "Now, what's this lead of yours?"

"Well, it's not actually mine," Sam replied. "It's Bobby's. You remember what you said back at the cabin in Colorado?"

Dean shrugged. "You mean three weeks ago? I barely remember what I said last night."

"You said we don't know where to find Azazel, or how to kill him, or even exorcize him. And all that's true. Dad's been hunting the son of a bitch for as long as I can remember, without the slightest headway. We need more information."

Dean frowned, wondering where Sam was going with all this. "Yeah, but after twenty-two years, we're fresh out of research material."

"Maybe not." Sam shifted in his seat, obviously trying to ignore his latte, despite needing the caffeine. He still wasn't sleeping well. "You know, this whole thing with the Stynes has me thinking, we're not just hunters. We're also legacies, and if the Men of Letters really were these elite, scholarly people, they must have had a library, right? Just because they're not around anymore doesn't mean their work was lost. They might have known something we don't, and there could still be a record of it somewhere."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam, we investigated all that last year. Remember? It's a dead end." The Men of Letters were very serious about the secret part of their secret organization.

"It _was_ a dead end," Sam countered. "But then Bobby dug up the Judah Initiative and found Rabbi Bass. When the three of you met last month, how much did you actually talk about the Men of Letters?"

Dean hesitated, thinking back. "That was right after you were taken, Sammy. Under the circumstances, we were a bit preoccupied with the Stynes and their history with those Nazi necromancers."

"Exactly! So for all we know, Rabbi Bass could be way more familiar with our heritage than we could ever hope to be. He might have some answers. It's worth asking, right?"

Dean cocked his head, glimpsing traces of excitement beneath Sam's worry and fatigue. He still wasn't thrilled with the idea of hunting the demon, but if they really could learn more about the Men of Letters, it might restore Sam's spirit. The geek was always fascinated by history's mysteries, and to be honest, if the old sages were still around, they would probably click with him better than his own family. The thought made Dean uneasy.

" _And if it hadn't been for some disaster back in 1958 that wiped most of them out,"_ Elizabeth had told him, _"y'all would have been raised as high-level strategists rather than low-level grunts."_

He didn't appreciate her implication that hunters were inferior, second-rate mercenaries, and if the Men of Letters shared her contempt, they could stay buried in the past for all he cared. But what if Sam belonged in their ranks? It made sense. Sam despised hunting, and he was smart enough to earn a full ride at Stanford. Growing up, he was never satisfied with their nomadic lifestyle. He always longed for something more. The Men of Letters… They could have been his calling. What if, by some tragic turn of fate, Sam was denied his best opportunity to gain fulfillment?

Well, that was a bunch of bull. Dean had never put much stock in the concept of fate, so if the Men of Letters were no longer an option, Sam would just have to find something else. He could, too, but first they had to make sure he was safe from Jacob and the demon. If there was even the slightest chance Rabbi Bass could help, then hell yeah, they should definitely talk to him. Besides, Dean actually liked the old man. He had pluck. Not to mention, considering his part in Sam's rescue, he'd probably be interested in meeting the kid. Dean could see the two of them really hitting it off—which might be good for Sam after everything he had lost. Even if the rabbi knew nothing about the Men of Letters, it could still be worth the trip.

"All right," he finally agreed. "Lucky for you, I took down his number. But I'm not calling anyone till you finish your vanilla latte."

Sam wrinkled his nose and glanced at the drink in distaste. Then, without warning, he reached over and swiped the black coffee that Dean had reserved for himself. He took a big gulp and smiled smugly. "Now that's more like it." Closing his laptop, he got to work packing his stuff while Dean watched in approval.

Slowly but surely, they were starting to make some real progress.

 **SPN**

As the last surviving member of the Judah Initiative, Rabbi Isaac Bass remained as passionate as ever about fighting his enemies—the Thule Society—a fraternity of necromancers who trained under Herman Styne. They had sponsored the Nazi Party when it first rose to power, and even now, sixty years after the war, they were hell-bent on world domination.

Rabbi Bass spent much of his time investigating museums and libraries with special collections, searching for a red ledger that once belonged to Commandant Eckhart, leader of the Thule. It contained records of supernatural experiments—human experiments—that could be deadly in the wrong hands. Rabbi Bass was determined to find it and destroy it.

But for now, he was visiting his family in Short Hills, New Jersey, where he would be honored to treat the brothers to dinner. Sure enough, he was thrilled to learn of Sam's escape, and eager to make his acquaintance. Since it was roughly a thirteen-hour drive from Wisconsin, they made arrangements for the following evening, and the rabbi wished them safe travel.

It was good to see Sam looking hopeful again. As they tossed their bags into the back of the Impala, Dean was already anticipating a pleasant ride with ample music—the kind that somehow made life better. But then, as they pulled away from the motel, he happened to notice a large semi-truck making a sharp turn into the parking lot from the north entrance. There was nothing peculiar about it—no distinguishing marks or corporate logos—and the white fifty-three-foot trailer might have belonged to any of the countless trucks Dean passed on a daily basis. So why did this one stand out?

According to Benny, the Stynes were driving a semi when they attacked the Roadhouse. Sometimes, Dean wondered if he'd ever be able to look at such vehicles the same way again. He had no reason to suspect trouble, and a side-long glance at Sam assured him the psychic wasn't sensing anything remotely dangerous. But then again, they were still in a crowded city, and Sam was admittedly tuning out the noise. If Jacob was nearby, he might not realize it—especially considering the bastard's mental prowess.

But it couldn't actually be Jacob, could it? No, Dean was just being paranoid. There was simply no way Jacob could find them. They had covered their tracks too well.

Even so, as they proceeded toward the highway, Dean bore down on the accelerator with more weight than he might have otherwise.

 **SPN**

 **(Short Hills, New Jersey … Tuesday, December 1, 2005)**

Noah and Chaya Bass—the rabbi's son and daughter-in-law—lived in a cape-style house in the middle of an affluent neighborhood where several Christian families were already hanging up their Christmas lights. Overall, it wasn't nearly as illustrious as Buckhead down in Atlanta, but it was still respectable, normal, and from Dean's perspective, freaky. He couldn't imagine growing up in a place like this. Where was all the fun?

Parking in the driveway as instructed, he climbed out of the Impala and followed Sam up the porch steps to the front door, where they were greeted by a petite middle-aged woman. "You must be Sam and Dean! Please, come in!" While Rabbi Bass spoke with a Yiddish accent, Chaya sounded American. She wore a modest blouse tucked in a long blue skirt with a colorful scarf on her head, and immediately graced the brothers with a welcoming smile. "I'm still not sure how you boys know Isaac, but he can't stop talking about you. I haven't seen him this excited in years."

Once they entered the small mud room, Chaya made them remove their jackets. If she was put off by their worn jeans, faded shirts, and unusual necklaces, she gave no indication of it. "I understand you've come a long way, so I hope you're not planning to stay in a hotel. We have a spare guest room, plus my son Aaron's room. He's a freshman at NYU, so he won't miss it."

Dean blinked, caught by surprise. "Well, that's very kind of you." How many people trusted strangers into their homes these days? The rabbi must have put in a good word.

"Oh, it's my pleasure," she assured him. "My name is Chaya, and…" She gave them both a careful inspection before correctly guessing, "You must be Dean, and you must be Sam. Please follow me." She led them into a spacious living room where an elderly man in professional attire occupied an upholstered chair with a book on his lap. He sported a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, a twinkle in his eyes, and a black kippah on the top of his head.

"Dean!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet like a man half his age. Despite his hunched shoulders, he was clearly in good health. "Shalom, my friend!" He embraced the hunter as if they'd known each other for years—apparently, he was still grateful for Dean's help in getting rid of his Nazi stalker.

"It's good to see you, rabbi," Dean said truthfully. The man was a war hero. You'd have to be a dick not to admire him.

Smiling, he patted Dean's shoulder and turned to regard his taller guest. "Sam!" He grasped his hand, shaking it warmly. "I prayed for you everyday, young man, and can't express my relief to find you safe from harm. Shalom!"

While Dean never had much use for prayer, after everything with Jacob, he could see how the rabbi's words were affecting Sam. The kid looked torn between gratitude and shame. "Thank you, rabbi. It's, um… It's an honor to meet you."

Dean also noticed Chaya's expression. She didn't say anything, but she couldn't hide her bewilderment. Obviously, she wasn't up to speed on their situation. Good to know.

"Won't you join me?" the rabbi asked, motioning for them to sit. "We have so much to talk about, and Noah won't be home for another hour." He glanced hopefully at his daughter-in-law. "Chaya, you know you are always welcome, my dear."

She smiled patiently. "Thank you, Isaac, but perhaps later. I have to check on the food." She nodded at the brothers. "Please, make yourselves at home, and let me know if there's anything I can get you." Dean thanked her, and she disappeared into the kitchen.

Rabbi Bass sighed at her hasty departure. "Like my son, she can't bring herself to believe the ramblings of an old man. Sometimes I fear the Thule are merely biding their time, waiting for my death to rise again, so no one can oppose them. If it's the last thing I do, I have to prevent their return. Promise me, if I can't get through to my grandson, you'll find a way to stop them."

Dean scoffed. "Like we'd let a bunch of Nazi necromancers take over the world? Please. Not on our watch."

The old man nodded. "Then I'll rest easily. My thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Rabbi," Sam said, leaning forward. "What can you tell us about our grandfather's society? The Men of Letters?"

"Ah…" Rabbi Bass paused pensively. "They were remarkable. The ultimate authority on all things supernatural. Their collective knowledge was said to be unparalleled, though I fear it may have been lost in the fifties."

Sam's face fell. "So you don't know if they left behind any of their work?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. But it would all be hidden somewhere safe, somewhere impenetrable. If you wish to recover it, you have your work cut out for you." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. They were a very secretive group, even among their allies. As I told your brother, my people owe them a great debt for warning us when they discovered Herman Styne training Commandant Eckhart in the occult. There would be no Judah Initiative without the Men of Letters, and I hate to think how the war might have ended. I can tell you stories of their valor, and I can share with you what they taught us, but I cannot grant you your inheritance. I wish I could."

"It's all right," Dean said quietly. "We figured it was a long shot." He tried staying positive, for Sammy's sake. "But hey, stories of their valor? I'd like to hear some of those."

Sam forced a smile. "Yeah. Me too. Maybe we'll learn something about our grandfather. I mean, we never actually knew him."

"I'm sure he'd be very proud of you both," the rabbi said sympathetically. "I'd certainly be, if you were my grandchildren."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _C_ _alm before the storm?_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	13. Cornered

_**Author's Note:**_ _Sorry this took so long. I worked really hard on it, and hope it meets all your expectations!_

 **SPN**

 **(Short Hills, New Jersey … Wednesday, December 2, 2005)**

When Chaya told Dean he could stay in her son Aaron's room while Sam took the guest room, he had no idea that meant sleeping on a waterbed. Honestly, he didn't realize waterbeds were still a thing, and wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. He had never used one before, and wasn't prepared for the pleasant experience—especially when he realized he could adjust the temperature. There was something about floating on warm water that relaxed every muscle in his body, and the novelty of it beguiled him. It was easily the best sleep he had in ages.

The next morning, he didn't want to get up. Dozing happily, not a care in the world, he wondered how many other luxuries Aaron enjoyed. The guy must have been pampered growing up—if Dean had ever asked for a waterbed, his dad would have laughed at him. But John wasn't here, and for the moment, Dean couldn't be bothered with the old man's opinions. He was simply too comfortable.

Around eight-thirty, Sam knocked on the door. "Dean? You awake?" He poked his head in, freshly showered and dressed for the day.

"Dude," Dean replied, grinning at him. "This bed's fantastic! How was yours?"

Sam hesitated. "Fine. I guess."

Well, that didn't sound convincing. Dean raised his head from the pillow to better observe his brother, but with the lights off and the curtains closed, it was hard to make out his expression. "You get any sleep last night?"

Sam shrugged. "Sure. A little. But I didn't have a water mattress. When are you getting up?"

"Never."

He could practically hear Sam rolling his eyes. "All right, but listen. Rabbi Bass wants to show us some old manuscripts from the Judah Initiative that he brought over after the war. He keeps them in his office safe out at the local synagogue. It's only fifteen minutes away. You coming?"

Synagogue? Wasn't that some sort of temple? Dean cringed. Did he really want to start out his day not just researching, but researching in a formal, holy environment? Especially when he had this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to sleep in on such an extravagant piece of furniture? No thanks! But then again, if Sam was going… "Yeah. Okay. Give me ten minutes."

Sam heard the reluctance in his voice and took pity on him. "You know what? It's fine, Dean. You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"I said I'd come!"

"Seriously," Sam replied. "Stay here; get some rest. I doubt I'll be gone more than an hour. You won't even miss me."

Dean hesitated, torn between conflicting desires. Yes, he wanted to keep an eye on his brother, but at the same time, he couldn't spend the rest of his life babysitting him. Not to mention, considering all the progress Sam had made, he deserved a little extra breathing space, didn't he? Rabbi Bass would keep him focused on constructive topics like history and religion, which would distract him from his painful memories, and suppress any impulses he might have to run off again. Honestly, this could be a good thing. Normal, healthy separation.

"All right, but if you're not back in an hour, and I have to come find you, you won't be getting anymore pie for a week! Got it? Sammy?"

The door was already shut, and his brother gone.

 **SPN**

The Short Hills synagogue was a tall brick building with a columned portico and a Star of David decorating the pediment. The windows were all stained glass with colorful geometric patterns, flowers, menorahs, and depictions of Jerusalem. In the spacious vestibule, several baskets offered a variety of headgear—felt hats, kippot, even beanies—for guests to borrow in reverence to God. Sam quickly donned a black beanie and followed Rabbi Bass toward the office area in the southern wing, near several classrooms and a library.

For a weekday morning, it was surprisingly active. The synagogue provided daily prayer services and education programs to fit any schedule for all walks of life. While Rabbi Bass frequently traveled around the country, searching for Eckhart's ledger, he remained a prominent member of the congregation, and several people stopped to greet him and ask about his health and family. They were all very gracious to Sam, eager for him to feel welcome despite his casual attire.

Obviously, they meant well, but the truth was, their hospitality made Sam flush. He didn't deserve it; he was the favorite of a demon.

Noticing his discomfort, Rabbi Bass led him aside and said, "There's no need to feel like an outcast here, Sam. My people have always been reviled by the world, and we would not wish that contempt on anyone, least of all you."

Sam shook his head. "You don't understand. I'm tainted."

"Oh, that I understand. Have faith in the Lord's justice, my boy, and do not crumble under the accusations of your enemies." Patting Sam's shoulder, the rabbi motioned for them to proceed into a small office that the synagogue reserved as a courtesy for their elder. At his age, he no longer presided over worship, but he still enjoyed researching, writing, and teaching whenever he was in town. After everything he suffered during the war, his congregation would not hear of his removal.

Unsurprisingly, the room was clean, bright and organized with several bookshelves and family photos. Sam found himself staring at a framed 16x20 portrait of Chaya, Noah, and their son, Aaron, back when he was a pre-teen. They were standing on Bow Bridge in Central Park, and they didn't just _look_ happy. They _felt_ happy. Somehow, their emotions transferred from reality to print, and Sam could psychically sense their pleasure. They must have been having a really good vacation—the kind he could only dream about.

Meanwhile, Rabbi Bass homed in on a shelf where he kept his first edition, twelve-volume set of the Jewish Encyclopedia. Four of the volumes were missing, replaced with a detailed facade that concealed a small safe where he kept his manuscripts from the Judah Initiative. Extracting them with care, he took a seat at his mahogany pedestal desk and smiled at Sam. "I'm afraid you won't be able to read any of these, unless you happen to know Hebrew, but we can walk through them together. It's been awhile for me, but I know they mention the Men of Letters, and perhaps we can find something useful."

"That'd be great," Sam said, sitting across from him. On second thought, this little field trip would definitely last more than an hour, and if he didn't text Dean, his brother would be pissed. But that could wait a few more minutes; Rabbi Bass had already opened the first manuscript, and Sam leaned forward in fascination. He might not be able to read the text, but if he could concentrate, he might be able to sense something about the man who typed it. Such an ability was new to him—as he mastered more and more of the fundamentals, he found himself instinctively pushing the boundaries, testing his limits, and he couldn't help but wonder how much potential he actually had.

 _No wonder the demons wanted him._

Those were Dean's thoughts when he learned about Sam's premonitions. As naturally talented as he was at blocking his mind, Dean occasionally slipped, and he was undoubtedly conflicted about his brother. He loved Sam, and nothing would ever change that, but he remained prejudiced against the supernatural. He could deny it all he liked, and pretend he was fine with Pamela's claim that Sam was born gifted, but deep down, he wanted his brother to be normal as much as Sam did. But it was too late for that, and if Dean knew what Sam was attempting with these manuscripts, his blood would run cold.

For the next fifty minutes, Sam fully immersed himself in the Judah Initiative. These people had faced atrocities that could not be described—evil that brought some to question whether God was dead—but they endured with equal strength, honor, and dignity. Sam would have been impressed if his head wasn't starting to spin. The next thing he knew, his nose was bleeding, and he would have fallen to the floor if Rabbi Bass hadn't scrambled around the desk to support him. "Sam!? What happened? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Sam shakily assured him, accepting the tissue he provided. "I just need a minute…" He wiped his nose, glancing at the clock. Had he texted Dean yet? No, but he would as soon as he recovered. Fortunately, it didn't take more than a few minutes, and as he tried deflecting the rabbi's questions, he fished his phone from his pocket.

But then, before he could use it, they were interrupted by a knock on the door. A young woman poked her head in with an apologetic expression, which only deepened when she noticed their positions. "I'm so sorry, rabbi. I don't mean to intrude, but your guest's brother is waiting out by the entrance, and he…" She hesitated, searching for the right words while making eye contact with Sam. "He wants to see you as soon as possible."

Sam managed a weak smile while putting his phone away. "I'm sorry if he was rude, ma'am. My brother's not always tactful, especially when he's out of his element."

Concerned about Sam's welfare, Rabbi Bass discouraged him from standing. "Becca, would you be so kind as to show Dean in? There's no reason for him to wait in the vestibule."

The woman pursed her lips. "I already suggested that, sir, and he objected. I don't think he plans to stay."

Typical Dean. Sam sighed, but since he was feeling more like himself, he gently extricated himself from the rabbi's grasp. "It's okay. Really, I'm better now. Let me go see what he wants, and I'll be right back." Leaving Rabbi Bass with his manuscripts, Sam followed Becca out of the office and toward the front of the building. Since he rarely indulged in pie, he couldn't care less about his brother's threat this morning, but still, it sounded like he was irritated, and Sam wasn't in the mood for an argument. He hoped this wouldn't take too long; he wanted to get back to his research.

Upon reaching the vestibule, Sam found several clusters of men and women mingling happily in their spare time, but no Dean. It wasn't unusual for his brother to blend in with a crowd, but Sam had always been adept at spotting him. So where was he? Frowning, Sam glanced around in bewilderment. Was he even here? Why would Becca lie?

She wasn't lying, but she had never met Dean. She didn't know what he looked like, and when she informed Sam of his presence, she referred to him as his brother. She never once said his name.

It wasn't Dean. It was Jacob.

The moment Sam caught sight of him, his heart stopped, his face flushed, and he would have bolted if his legs weren't suddenly rooted to the floor.

Jacob loitered by the entrance, silent, patient, and amused. Though he had traded his slacks for a pair of jeans, he still wore a dress shirt with a vest and tie under his black overcoat. Life on the run had not disheveled him; his blond hair remained trim and tidy, and his face was clean and smug. When his gaze shifted toward Sam, his blue eyes were glinting sadistically.

 _There you are!_ His thoughts filled Sam's mind, unbidden, but inescapable. He was never telepathic, but somehow, he always had a way of compelling Sam to read him, and the bond they shared made it impossible to resist. _I've been looking everywhere for you, boy!_

Sam wanted to throw up. It wasn't fair! How could Jacob find him? How could this be happening? Again? Oh, God. Where was Dean?

 _Now Sammy, I don't want you getting any bright ideas. You can't fight me, and there's nowhere left to hide. I'll always track you down, no matter what, and if you make this needlessly difficult, I promise, innocent lives will be lost. You don't want that, do you boy? You might as well give up and come with me. Now._

How could Sam refuse? Jacob probably carried a gun beneath his coat and was deadly enough to kill everyone in the room without so much as blinking.

 _Jacob, please,_ he begged. _Let me go!_

Instead, Jacob smirked. He had been waiting so long for this moment, and Sam could sense his anticipation. He was eager for some fun, some much-needed stress relief, and only required adequate privacy to begin. _Don't make me repeat myself. You belong with us, and you know it. Now, are you gonna behave, or do I have to spill some blood?_

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Becca's voice was so unexpected that Sam flinched. There was no masking his panic, but he met her concerned gaze with a halfhearted nod. "Yeah, I'm… I'm fine. I just forgot, my brother and I were planning to leave for Poughkeepsie this morning. Would you let the rabbi know?"

She nodded. "Of course."

He thanked her and reluctantly approached Jacob. His heart was starting to pound, and he could barely breathe. When he reached his brother, Jacob roughly swiped the hat from his head and ruffled his hair. A moment later, he wrapped his arms around Sam and squeezed him in a tight embrace.

"I missed you, little brother!"

Sam clenched his eyes shut, struggling not to whimper. Where was Dean!?

"Let's go." Jacob kept one arm around Sam's shoulders as he ushered him out of the synagogue and down the portico steps. In the adjacent parking lot, a generic semi-truck was idling ominously with the back of its trailer open and the ramp descended. Sam faltered, staring at it in blatant horror, but Jacob dragged him along, hardly missing a step. "Come on, boy. For the sake of time, we need to make this quick. But don't worry. Once we're a safe distance from that damn Winchester, we'll have all day to reconnect."

"Jacob, no! Please!" He didn't want this. Anything but this.

"Shut up," Jacob snarled, hauling him up the ramp and into the dimly-lit trailer. For the most part, it was empty with a few storage boxes packed against the far wall, but Sam barely noticed them. His attention was fixed on the heavy-duty, steel-wire crate meant for large dogs.

"Jacob, you don't have to do this!"

His brother shrugged. "Perhaps not, but I can't risk losing you again. Sorry, kiddo, but it might take awhile for you to earn back my trust, and till then, you need a firm hand."

"No!" Sam finally brought himself to break away, but Jacob was swift to respond, ramming his knee straight in Sam's stomach. He doubled over, gasping in pain, while Jacob manhandled him out of his jacket and cuffed his wrists behind his back. Then, he shoved Sam to the cold, hard floor and pinned him down so he could search his pockets and confiscate his phone, wallet, jackknife, and lock picks. Sam groaned. "You son of a bitch."

"Watch your language." Jacob rolled Sam onto his back and produced an oversized black bandana from inside his coat. Bunching it up in an ugly wad, he roughly stuffed it through his captive's lips, filling his mouth. Sam didn't have time to spit it out before Jacob tied a second bandana around his head, tighter than necessary. Then, for good measure, he slapped Sam across the face with enough force to bruise him. "Don't move."

He climbed off Sam and hastened over to a storage box where he obtained two bundles of nylon rope. In a matter of seconds, he was back at Sam's side, fiercely removing his shoes and socks—as always—before binding his legs together. Once he was satisfied, he dragged Sam over to the dog crate and forced him inside. There was barely room to sit, and as Jacob padlocked the door, Sam curled up into an awkward fetal position.

"Comfortable?" Jacob teased, but he was too pressed for time to gloat. Sam watched miserably as he gathered up his possessions and stormed out of the trailer. He slid the telescoping ramp shut, closed the doors, and bolted everything into place. Sam was left alone, trapped inside. Frustrated, sore, and terrified, he struggled against his restraints and moaned through his gag, but it was useless. There was nothing he could do about his predicament.

Soon, the truck was on its way out of the parking lot, and suddenly the trailer lights switched themselves off. Immersed in total darkness, Sam could no longer hold back the tears brimming in his eyes.

What made him think he was ever safe from his brother's cruelty?

 **SPN**

 _ **Author**_ _ **'s Note:**_ _Like you didn't see that coming! :-p_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	14. The Challenge

**SPN**

 **(Short Hills, New Jersey … Wednesday, December 2, 2005)**

Dean tried dozing for another half hour, but a sudden onset of restlessness got in the way. He told himself Sam was fine—occasional separation is healthy and normal—so why did he feel inexcusably negligent? And why did he feel like he was forgetting something?

After crawling out of bed, Dean hit the shower and put on fresh clothes. He ventured downstairs and found Chaya in the kitchen, pulling some kind of kosher quiche out of the oven. As much as he loved pie, the sight nearly made him drool. Cheese, mushrooms, peppers, a homemade crust… It certainly wasn't the processed crap they served at cheap diners.

"Would you like a slice?" Chaya asked when she caught him staring.

"Oh, you have no idea!"

As they both sat down to partake of their savory breakfast, Dean kept a close eye on the clock. Sam left around eight-thirty, expecting to return in an hour, but all too soon, it was approaching ten with no word of his progress. But not to worry! Sam was in research mode with a kindred spirit; he probably just lost track of time. Right?

Around quarter past ten, the kitchen phone rang. Chaya cheerfully placed Dean's plate on top of hers and carried it to the sink before answering. "Bass residence… Oh, hello Isaac!" Dean's ears pricked up; that was the rabbi. "Yes, he's right here… Isaac, what's wrong?" Chaya's face twisted in concern, which made Dean stiffen. Was something wrong? Was it Sam? Chaya met Dean's gaze. "Yes, of course." She held the phone out to him and said, "He's asked to speak with you."

Dean leaped to her side in a single bound, snatching the phone from her hand with enough urgency to make her gasp. "Rabbi? It's Dean. What's wrong?"

 _Don't let it be Sam! Don't let it be Sam!_

"Dean…" There was no mistaking the old man's dismay. "I'm so sorry. I should never have let him go."

"Go? Go where!?"

"We were in my office, looking over my manuscripts, when Becca—a member of the congregation—informed us that you were in the vestibule, waiting to see Sam. At least, we assumed it was you; he only introduced himself as Sam's brother."

Jacob. The phone slipped from Dean's grasp, clattering to the floor. By some miracle, it didn't break, not that Dean noticed—he was too lightheaded. The semi-truck he glimpsed two days ago, back in the Madison motel parking lot… He thought he was being paranoid; he allowed it to slip his mind; he slept in while Sam made himself vulnerable, and now, from the sound of it, he was back in Jacob's clutches. How the hell could this have happened!?

With Chaya watching in alarm, Dean hastily grabbed his cell phone and dialed Sam's number. "Please, please, please, please, please!" Each ring made his heart pound in greater desperation until, at last, the call finally went through.

"Dean!" came the venomous voice of his hated rival. Jacob. Jacob had Sam's phone! Jacob had Sam! Dean felt his knees buckle in full-blown panic as the bastard taunted him. "I had a feeling I'd be hearing from you. A shame we missed each other, but you know how it is. So much to do; so little time. I can't waste a minute on old acquaintances when I have a brother who needs my attention."

"You let him go, you piece of sh—!"

"Dean Winchester!" Jacob loudly protested. "I've had it up to here with your disrespect. If you, your daddy, and your damn henchmen can't control your tongues, I swear to God, I will cut out Sam's and leave it somewhere for you to find. How would you like that? Hell, I just might do it anyway. After all, Sammy's psychic, and losing his tongue might strengthen his telepathy. It could be good for him."

"No!" Dean struggled to breathe under the oppressive weight of Jacob's malice. "Please. I'm begging you. Don't hurt my brother."

"He's not your brother," Jacob retorted. "Not anymore. He belongs to me, and the sooner you accept that, the easier it'll be on everyone."

Cold fury plowed through fear. "It doesn't work that way. Sam's a person; he doesn't belong to anyone, and certainly not to you. If you think you have some kind of claim on him, you're out of your damn mind. You don't even know him. Not really."

"Don't I?" Jacob asked with a hint of amusement. "Oh, you'd be surprised." His next words were like a punch in the gut. "I know Sam's favorite sport is soccer. When he was twelve, he played in school, and led his team to their division championship—brought home a trophy and everything. He always found comfort and safety in his math classes—nothing remotely supernatural about numbers. He was a mathlete for awhile there, till Johnny decided it was a waste of time and pulled him out for more important things, like target practice. You have any idea what his greatest childhood regret is? Never owning a dog." He chuckled fondly while Dean trembled, nauseous and terrified.

How the hell did Jacob learn all that? No way Sam told him… Right? He was just a sick, supernatural stalker!

"Needless to say, I know my brother," the bastard maintained. "Intimately. And you can't deny it. We share a bond, and you can't change it. Sammy's mine, and if I ever see you again, I'll kill you. Make no mistake, Dean; I'm over that reincarnation ritual, so I don't need you anymore."

"Yes, you do," Dean recklessly assured him. "You need me so you can kill me as soon as possible. Cause it doesn't matter what kind of bond you share with Sam, he is still my brother. He still considers himself a Winchester, and if you want to change that, you have to sever his ties to his real family. As long as I'm alive, I'm an obstacle, a distraction, which you can't afford. So why don't we settle this once and for all, right now, in person? Cause you have to do it in person, or Sam will never respect you."

Chaya was staring at him in wide-eyed disbelief, and Dean half-expected her to call the cops, but she refrained. At least for now.

After a brief pause, Jacob sighed. "I suppose you have a point. Very well. A duel it is! Midnight, then. I'll text you the location, but you had best come alone. In fact, if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, Sammy will suffer for it. Understand?"

Dean scoffed. "You're on."

 **SPN**

Sam had no idea how long they were on the road. It felt like hours, but he couldn't be sure. The darkness was disorienting, and he found it hard to concentrate. His gag was drying out his mouth, making him thirsty, and the cramped confines of his cage, along with his crippling restraints, left him stiff, sore, and miserable. It was pathetic, and he fluctuated between denial, fear, and humiliation.

Twice he tried kicking open the door, but the steel-wire bars were harsh on his bare feet—no doubt drawing blood—and the padlock remained secure. Helpless, he could only wait, flashing back to his initial captivity when the Stynes chained him to the floor in their dusty attic. Monroe wanted him to 'stew' for a bit while they turned their sights to John and Dean, and the experience rattled him more than he cared to admit.

After all, Sam was raised like a warrior. His father trained him for every possible scenario; he should have been equipped to handle this. Unfortunately, the Stynes—and Jacob in particular—had a way of overwhelming him. They weren't like other monsters. They were family.

No! Sam shook his head, rolling from his right side over to his left, then back again, writhing awkwardly as he tried to keep his blood circulating. Jacob was not his family. He's not family. He's not family.

It didn't matter how many times Sam repeated the mantra. What he _knew_ to be true and what he _believed_ to be true were two very different things. Dean promised the confusion would eventually fade, but at this rate, it would take years. Sam didn't have years. He wasn't even sure if he had an hour. Jacob was going to win. There was nothing he could do.

When the truck finally decelerated, Sam was drenched in sweat. He tensed, dreading the inevitable. He couldn't bear to face his eldest brother, but Jacob was too excited to neglect him. And sure enough, the trailer doors were promptly yanked open, triggering the interior lights, which effectively blinded the young captive. He clenched his eyes shut, turning away from Jacob, towards the wall.

Heavy footsteps thumped steadily behind him. His brother was savoring the moment, advancing slowly. Then he said, "Aww, come now, Sammy, don't be like that. We have so much to talk about." When Sam ignored him, he clucked his tongue, kneeling beside the crate. "All right, you listen to me. The sooner you start cooperating, the faster you'll earn some privileges. And once you start earning some privileges, I'll let you visit with Cyrus."

Cyrus… Sam glanced over his shoulder and locked eyes with Jacob, who nodded in approval. "That's it," he coaxed gently. "I know you're upset, and I get it. You're conflicted. You're still attached to the Winchesters. But don't worry. We're gonna take this nice and slow, one day at a time, until you forget all about them."

 _That's never gonna happen,_ Sam replied telepathically, since he couldn't speak through his gag.

"You can't stop it," Jacob said, not unkindly, before changing the subject. "Now then, would you care to explain what you were doing back at that synagogue? You should know you don't belong in a place like that."

 _Cause I'm unworthy?_ Sam couldn't keep the shame and bitterness from his tone, which made Jacob roll his eyes.

"No, cause they are."

 _Go to hell!_

Jacob stood up and kicked the crate with enough force to jar Sam from head to toe. He cringed, groaning uncomfortably, which encouraged Jacob to kick it again. And again. By all rights, he should have bent the bars, but the steel wire proved abnormally strong—no doubt reinforced with magic. "Let's try this again," Jacob suggested dangerously. "What were you doing in that synagogue, Sam? Answer me, or I'll start kicking Cyrus next."

Sam glared at him resentfully. From the day they first met, Jacob was always using his loved ones against him. It was starting to get old, but since it never failed, Jacob would never stop taking advantage of it. _Fine… After you found me back in October, Dean was frantic to rescue me, but he didn't know where to even start looking until he learned of a connection between the Men of Letters and another organization called the Judah Initiative. It was a long shot, but he didn't have any other leads, and as it turned out, the Initiative's primary goal was to stop the Nazi's Thule Society, which your family mentored. So, after a ton of research, Dean tracked down a surviving member of the Thule Society, which is how he discovered the safe house in Atlanta._

Sam was providing far more information than Jacob requested—information that might jeopardize Rabbi Bass—but he couldn't help himself. He wondered if that's why Jacob gagged him, knowing thoughts were harder to control than words. _If the Judah Initiative kept such thorough records that they could implicate your family, I hoped they might also have records of the Men of Letters. I was in the synagogue trying to learn more about my heritage._

Jacob watched him with rapt attention. "Oh, Sam, I wish I had known you were so interested in the Men of Letters."

 _Why?_ Sam snapped. _If you want me to forget I'm a Winchester, don't you also want me forgetting I'm a legacy?_

"Touché," Jacob acknowledged, crouching back down next to the crate. "Perhaps I discounted your old family too quickly. In the past, the Stynes have always had the skills, enlightenment, and resources to match the Men of Letters. Aside from their progeny, we've never had much use for them, but now…" His blue eyes grew hard and cold. "Your allies have taken everything from us. Our kin, our home, our wealth, our reputation! Of course, now that I've retrieved you, I can focus on rebuilding, but where to start? Why not with the Men of Letters? I mean, who better than us to find and claim their buried secrets? We can pull it off, too, Sammy. You and I… There's nothing we can't accomplish together."

Sam shook his head, whimpering despite himself. He could literally feel Jacob's confidence—his absolute certainty that the future would play out as he imagined—and it was all he could do to keep resignation at bay. Somehow, he had to fight this. If Jacob managed to obtain the Men of Letters' collective knowledge, which Rabbi Bass called unparalleled, it would no doubt mean disaster.

A knock on the trailer's open door interrupted Jacob's reverie. He and Sam both glanced around to see a young man with a suave brown haircut climbing into the vehicle. He smirked at Sam, but addressed Jacob. "It's time. Cyrus is already on board, and if you want to make your rendezvous, we can't delay."

"Thank you, Shax."

Sam's heart skipped a beat, and he recoiled anxiously. Shax was the name of the demon who tattooed his wrist with the Stynes' family crest! What the hell was he doing here!?

If Jacob recognized Sam's distress, he offered no consolation. Instead, he and his accomplice mustered all their strength—inhuman as it was—and easily picked up the crate. Sam's stomach flipped as they roughly hauled him outside, where the smell of salt and the sound of surging waves welcomed them to the Atlantic. The truck was parked on an old, desolate port with four abandoned piers stretching out into the water.

 _Jacob?_

"I'm sorry, Sam," he apologized as they made their way toward the southern pier where a lone yacht was ready to receive them. "I know I said we'd have all day to reconnect, but there's been a slight change of plans. Dean's refusing to leave well enough alone, and I've suffered his insolence for too long. No more. I'm killing him tonight."

Sam panicked. "Mmmffff!"

"Luckily, our friend here has access to a private island where we can stash you and Cyrus until the job is done." Jacob sighed blissfully. "Can you believe it? In just a few hours, we'll finally be rid of that damn pest! And no one will ever come between us again."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	15. Whole

_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter contains some dark themes. Consider yourself warned._

 **SPN**

 **(Connecticut … Wednesday, December 2, 2005)**

Jacob had not felt this euphoric in over a month. He had always known he was sadistic, and took great pleasure from killing Henriksen's wife to manipulate the fed, as well as kidnapping that girl to tempt the vampire, but neither activity satisfied him as much as caring for Sam. After all, they were just game pieces. Sam was family.

With Shax's help, Jacob stored his agitated brother below deck, next to the bed in one of the cabins. He didn't mind the boy bouncing around in his crate; such hysteria could only be expected. Sam loved John and Dean, no matter how they mismanaged him, and he would mourn their deaths. But in the end, he'd be stronger for it, and one day, he would even thank Jacob for his intervention. With that in mind, Jacob would cherish these transitory months, knowing they wouldn't last forever.

"Try to relax, Sam," he suggested, noticing the blood on his feet from kicking the locked door. Once they reached the island, they would have to find different accommodations. Crates were convenient for travel, but the more desperate Sam became, the more likely he'd be to really hurt himself. "I promise, this will all be over soon."

Finding no comfort in those words, Sam howled through his gag, slamming his shoulder against the bars. It was difficult to leave him like this; Sam obviously needed his attention. But Shax was right; they were on a tight schedule. Therefore, Jacob pulled the nautical coverlet off the bed and draped it over the crate, hoping to calm Sam down by reducing his exposure to outside stimulation—if it worked for dogs, it might also work for little brothers.

"You could always drug him," Shax pointed out as they left the cabin.

Jacob sighed. "If Aunt Caroline were here, I suppose she'd cast a sleeping spell on him. But Sam has to learn the futility of disobedience. If I drug him, I lose credibility. I want him to know that he can't win, even at peak performance."

"Fair enough," Shax said, chuckling. They proceeded to the wheelhouse, where they found Cyrus cuffed to a metal handrail along the far wall. He had been pestering Jacob to see Sam for hours, which was understandable, but not yet permissible—Sam needed time to settle down. Of course, try explaining that to a seven-year-old. Besides, the kid had a history of sticking his nose where it didn't belong, so until he learned his place, this was for his own good.

"Jacob, please," he nevertheless sniffled, shaking his restraints. "Get these off me! I didn't do anything!"

Signaling Shax to take the helm, Jacob sauntered over to Cyrus and crouched down in front of him. "I'm sorry, little man, but you and your brother both need supervision, and I'm just too preoccupied. Don't worry, though. It's only temporary." He ruffled Cyrus' hair while Shax pulled the yacht away from the pier.

They didn't have far to go—only four miles. Though Shax spent most of his time in New Orleans, he procured the small island off the coast of Connecticut as payment for one of his tattoos. Considering the special ingredients used in his ink, his rates were naturally exorbitant. The island itself was barely worth mentioning—three acres at the most—but it contained a breathtaking Tudor home, an enormous boathouse, and plenty of privacy—everything Jacob needed.

As soon as they docked, Shax led the way up a cobblestone path while Jacob carried Cyrus over his shoulder, too impatient for the boy's tiny strides. It would be a long trek back to New Jersey, and if he wanted to prepare for his brush with Dean, he couldn't afford to waste a single moment. Consequently, they skipped the grand tour and entered the house with quick efficiency. Since they had already discussed their options while on the road, Jacob was content to follow the demon to the second-floor master bedroom, where he locked Cyrus in the spacious closet—a development that terrified the kid.

"No! Jacob, please! Don't leave me in here! Jacob, please!"

"Shut up, Cy!" He barked through the door. "You're perfectly fine, and I'll let you out tomorrow! Now quit embarrassing yourself!" With that, he and Shax returned to the yacht for Sam.

When Jacob pulled the coverlet from the crate, he found his brother languishing in tears. Good. Dean might not be dead yet, but Jacob was intentionally radiating such confidence—perhaps over-confidence—that his death couldn't be denied. In Jacob's mind, Dean was past saving—and the more Sam sensed it, the more he believed it. He was already starting to grieve.

As before, Jacob and Shax worked together to carry Sam's crate. Climbing out of the yacht proved difficult, but it wasn't anything they couldn't handle. Soon enough, they were back in the house, marching through the foyer into a downstairs living room that Shax had previously converted into a tattoo parlor. When Sam glimpsed the workstation, the ink, the coil machine, and the hydraulic spa chair meant for clients, he reacted strongly, squirming with renewed urgency as panic took over.

"It's okay, little brother," Jacob said as he and Shax set down the crate. "As much as we both want to slap some ink on you, we have other priorities." Pulling a key from his pocket, Jacob removed the padlock and opened the door. Despite his resistance, Sam was easy to extract—once Jacob got a firm grip on his bound ankles, he simply dragged him out. "Business before pleasure."

"Let's get him seated," Shax proposed, circling around to kneel at Sam's head. Jacob waited for him to hook his hands under his captive's arms; then, on the count of three, they both lifted, hoisting Sam up and over to the cushioned chair.

"This is where I like to practice my technique," Shax explained as Jacob discovered multiple leather cuffs chained to the sturdy frame of the furniture. "You see, I would never experiment on paying customers, or potential customers—including volunteers—which means I typically dabble on non-consenting canvases." He chuckled while Sam writhed furiously, but with the demon holding him down, Jacob had no trouble untying his legs and strapping two of the cuffs around his ankles.

Next, Shax forced Sam upright so Jacob could reach behind him to remove the handcuffs. With his arms momentarily free, Sam tried throwing punches, but he might as well have been a frail child, for all the good it did him. Shax and Jacob each claimed a limb and expertly fastened his wrists to the armrests. Sam's new restraints had enough slack for him to rattle the chains in frustration, but that was all. He might be more comfortable and safer than he was in the crate, but he still couldn't escape. Recognizing defeat, Sam collapsed against the seat-back, panting through his gag.

Jacob leaned over him and gently brushed the bangs from his eyes, making him flinch. "Thatta boy, Sammy. You're doing so well." He glanced up at Shax. "You have any kind of first aid kit?"

"Sure," the demon replied, scampering over to a desk by the fireplace. He returned with a small white box that Jacob eagerly snatched. Then, anticipating his needs, Shax stepped on a pedal that adjusted the bed-chair, reclining the seat-back while elevating the leg rest to give Jacob easy access to Sam's bloody feet.

"Here we go," Jacob said, riffling through the kit for the necessary cleaning supplies. "This might sting a bit." He hastily went to work treating the cuts and scrapes, more concerned with expediency than compassion, and sure enough, Sam moaned in pain. Well, he should have known better than to kick at a steel-wire door with bare feet!

Meanwhile, Shax threaded a belt between Sam's arms and torso, cinching it tightly over his chest to prevent him from bucking or sitting up. He had several other restraints to further limit the boy's mobility, including a collar, but Jacob shot him a warning look that compelled him to stop. No need to get carried away.

Disgruntled, Shax proceeded to amuse himself by rolling over a pair of portable TV stands with mounted fifty-inch flat screens. He positioned them at strategic angles to Sam's right and left, so he would always have one in his line of sight no matter which direction he turned his gaze.

"Something to occupy your time, Sam," he said, switching the screens on. They each displayed examples of his art, sliding from one grisly image to the next in ten-second intervals. "We might not be tattooing you today, but I guarantee you ain't leaving here without one or maybe even two, so you better start brainstorming. We're gonna mark you up like royalty, aren't we, Jacob?"

Sam shrank in on himself when Jacob smiled. Shax was a prolific artist who specialized in black and gray horror, but offered everything from realistic portraits, to colorful illustrations, to supernatural symbolism. Sam would never agree to any of his work, so Jacob would have the final say, but the boy might as well get used to the idea of more tattoos. Perhaps a ceremonial blade piercing the Aquarian Star—emblem of the Men of Letters—with an assortment of skulls and chains spread across his back.

Glorious.

"Care for some music?" Shax asked, turning up the audio. Jacob was pleased to hear New Orleans jazz—it reminded him of home. Sam, however, grimaced miserably and shook his head, which only encouraged the demon to increase the volume. "Don't worry, Sam, you'll grow to love it!"

"There!" Jacob said when he finished bandaging his brother's feet. He returned the first aid kit and adjusted the seat for Sam to lie flat. "Get some rest, kiddo. We'll be back before you know it." After patting Sam's shoulder, Jacob turned to leave with Shax in his wake, but when he was halfway to the door, Sam called out to him.

 _Jacob, wait!_

Since learning of Dean's death sentence, Sam had been too distraught for telepathy, but this would be his last chance to change Jacob's mind, and he wasn't going to waste it. Likewise, Jacob wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to bond, and so he found himself returning to his brother's side. "What is it, Sammy?"

Sam looked up at him with heartbroken hazel eyes. _Dean's my brother. Please_ _…_

"I know," Jacob somberly assured him. "And Eldon was my brother, but no one stopped John from murdering him, so why should I hesitate to kill Dean?"

 _I'm begging you_ _…_ _Spare his life, and I'll do everything you want._

Jacob shrugged. "I'm too patient for such an offer. You'll do everything I want regardless of Dean's fate. It's just a matter of time."

The gag muffled Sam's objections, and he struggled to express his despair. Instead of projecting his thoughts, he began projecting his emotions, which Jacob readily embraced. He was too powerful to let the shared experience manipulate him, but the intimacy of it was rapturous. Jacob closed his eyes and basked in the boy's turmoil.

Then, without comprehending the implications, he reciprocated with all the affection he felt for his brother. He offered it earnestly, and because of their connection, Sam received it fully. For several long moments, they were suspended in psychic harmony—yin and yang, fear and aggression, submission and domination—before finally releasing each other. Jacob gasped, shaking in ecstasy, while Sam grew painfully still, obviously in a daze.

Jacob leaned over him again. "Look on the bright side. At least we'll always have each other." He kissed Sam's forehead and stroked his cheek, promising to make Dean's death as quick and clean as possible. Sam didn't respond, so Jacob ruffled his hair and followed Shax out of the room. This time, his brother let him go without complaint.

 **SPN**

Sam couldn't move. What just happened?

He couldn't breathe. Jacob might be gone, but his presence somehow lingered, and it was stifling.

Jacob loved him. Perhaps not in the same way John and Dean loved him—it was more like infatuation—but it was very real and very fervent. Sam felt sick. He shuddered to think the word… Violated.

Jacob loved him. Of course he loved him. Why wouldn't he? Sam was hand-chosen by a demon to wipe out civilization. His blood was contaminated. And now Jacob would slaughter everyone he ever loved in a jealous rage so they could be together, because they deserved each other. Why bother fighting it?

Sam's heart was seized in the crushing grip of guilt and shame. A part of him wanted to die. Even if Dean somehow managed to survive—which he wouldn't—how could Sam face him after this? How could he face anyone?

Jacob loved him.

Jacob loved him.

Jacob.

Jacob.

Jacob.

Jacob.

Sam would have floundered into a dark and lonely abyss, but right at the edge, something calm and warm soothed his tortured spirit. It called him back, gently and mercifully. His necklace… The fire agate pendant that Pamela gave him on a leather cord. It was glowing. Pamela claimed the gemstone could restore vitality, repel negative energy, and provide grounding. For the first time, right when he needed it the most, it came to life.

 _Breathe, Sam._

Her distant voice echoed in his ears. He didn't recognize the sound of it—he couldn't—but somehow he knew exactly who she was. In his mind's eye, he glimpsed golden flames, and for once, he didn't fear them. Instead, he forced himself to breathe. In, four seconds. Out, two seconds. Deep breaths.

 _Sam… I'm sorry._

Her voice faded, and she was gone.

No… Sam cried silently, tugging on his restraints. He needed to free himself. No one was coming to save him, and no one was going to save Dean. He had to fight. The leather cuffs were soft, but uncompromising. The chains rattled, refusing to break. Jacob had taken everything he could use to pick the locks, and he was powerless to escape. What now?

"Hello, Sam."

He jumped in surprise, swinging his head around to find a young woman watching him from the door. She must have been around his age, with shoulder-length brown hair and piercing green eyes. She wore stylish boots, jeans, and a sleeveless top with a choker neckline. Her wrists were adorned with diamond bracelets, and in her hand, she carried an eight-inch dagger. There was nothing friendly about her demeanor, and Sam stiffened in alarm.

"We haven't formally met," she said in a British accent, slowly sauntering towards him. "You can call me Bela." When she reached his side, she blinked, and suddenly her eyes were pitch black. Demon! Sam recoiled, which made her laugh. "Oh, you don't have to fear me! I'm actually rooting for you, Sam. You're first in line for the throne."

He shook his head, but when she pressed the blade against his cheek, he froze. She leaned towards him, whispering in his ear, "When Shax told me where to find you, I could hardly believe it. What an offering! And just in time for the holidays." She grinned. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

Sam clenched his fists as she climbed on top of him, straddling his waist. "What do you say we get to know each other? My father has a lot riding on you, boy, and if you cooperate, I can make the experience much more pleasurable." Sam scoffed, which earned him a slap in the face. "Of course, if you don't cooperate, I can make it much more fun. Either way, when everything's said and done, you'll finally be whole."

Whole? What the hell did that mean?

As Bela savored Sam's discomfort, caressing his chest with her dagger, something buried in the back of his mind began to shift. A forgotten dream… A stolen memory…

Elizabeth…

She had projected herself into his subconscious while he was at the hospital in Colorado! She wanted to thank him for killing Victor, and return the favor by warning him of her intentions.

" _It's nothing personal. And it's not vengeance. It's just that I love Thomas, and I'd do anything to see him again."_

" _You told me your cousin burned him alive with magic and holy oil. You don't even know if he survived."_

" _Exactly. That's my point. Sam, I've already crossed the line; my family will never forgive me. Thomas is all I have left in the world, and restoring him is the only way I'll ever find true happiness. I'll do it, too. I already have a plan. But the price_ _… I_ _'m so sorry, but you're not going to like the price."_

" _What's the price?"_

" _A spell. You see, my family once had in their possession the most powerful resource ever made on Earth. The Book of the Damned. Heed my words; it is cursed, dangerous, and evil. We lost it nearly a century ago, but now that I_ _'ve reached my full potential, I should be able to pinpoint its location with my crystals. When I find it, I'll have the leverage I need to negotiate with Azazel. That's where you come in. I'm sorry, Sam, but I read your palm. I know what you are, and why Azazel wants you. You're an empty vessel—you were born to contain a celestial being within your body. And not just any celestial being. The greatest of them all. Lucifer himself, the Morning Star. He's currently trapped in a cage deep in the bowels of Hell, but think about it. If Azazel's so interested in you, he must have a plan to release his master. With the Book of the Damned, I can expedite that plan. The Book has the power to create and undo any form of damnation—and it can easily unlock a sealed door. Azazel will jump at the chance to use it, but he can't. The Book was written in code, in a mystical dialect of ancient Sumerian that no one outside my family can read. Not even a yellow-eyed demon. So, in exchange for my help, Azazel will restore Thomas to me, once and for all. Lucifer will walk the Earth, and you, Sam, will finally be whole."_

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	16. The Paulinskill Viaduct

**SPN**

 **(Connecticut … Wednesday, December 2, 2005)**

No! No! No! No! No!

Lucifer!? Sam was an empty vessel meant to contain _LUCIFER_ in his body!? No! It had to be a joke, right? Lucifer was just a myth. He wasn't real. He couldn't be real. Could he?

Yes, of course he could. Lucifer was a fallen angel, but still an angel, and Sam had always believed in—had always hoped for—such divine creatures. After all, there had to be something good, something pure, in the universe to make up for all the evil he faced as a hunter. But if angels were real, if God was real, then could he deny the existence of Lucifer? No. It wasn't fair! Why was all this crap being dumped on him? He was a good person! He didn't deserve it! Where was Dean?

Noticing his panic, Bela traced the tip of her blade up to his neck, smiling maliciously. "Tell me something, Sam. Why do you let Jacob treat you this way? With my father's patronage, you could have all the power in the world. You could lead armies, Sam. Endless armies! So why would you sit back and allow the Stynes to murder your precious girlfriend? Why are you allowing Jacob to murder Dean? It doesn't make any sense."

Sam flushed angrily, desperately, and found himself wrestling against his restraints with renewed urgency. He had to do something! He had to stop this from happening!

Bela sighed, clucking her tongue. "Oh well. Who am I to judge? The important thing is you're with us now, which means your real training can finally begin."

No! Sam surrendered to the only defense he had left—his psychic abilities. Whenever Jacob was present, their bond seemed to cripple him—he was too timid to lash out under his brother's watchful gaze. But Bela didn't share Jacob's authority over him; she was nothing but a demon! And Sam could tap into her powers the same way he could tap into her thoughts and emotions, and once he channeled them, he could redirect them. Jacob wasn't here to discourage such defiance.

 _GET OFF!_

In a matter of seconds, Sam psychically hijacked Bela's strength to snap his chains before hijacking her telekinesis to propel her across the room, where he pinned her against the wall. She gasped in shock, eyes widening as he sat up and pulled the gag from his mouth. No time to waste! He had been reading up on demons for over a year (ever since he met Azazel in the Stynes' Shreveport estate) and he had long since memorized multiple exorcism chants to combat the bastards.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."

Convulsing, Bela shrieked at him. "You wouldn't dare!"

Sam ignored her. "Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."

Her convulsing intensified until suddenly she tossed her head back and screamed. Black smoke poured out of her mouth, swirling toward the ceiling where it spontaneously combusted in a flash of hellfire. Bela—the human Bela—dropped to the floor, and while Sam still sensed residual demonic energy throughout the house, the immediate threat was gone.

Drained, he sank back in the chair and tried to catch his breath. He was so screwed! An empty vessel meant to contain Lucifer? What did that even mean!? But it was hard to speculate with the dulcet harmony of a brass ensemble filling the room—clashing with the gruesome tattoos on the TV screens. He had to get out of here… had to find Jacob and Dean. One of them would know what to do.

Grimacing, Sam slowly and stiffly swung his legs around to slide off the chair. When his feet touched the floor, they protested painfully, but it could have been worse. His nerves might be frayed, but at least he could bear his own weight. As for the woman… She was curled up on her side, hair covering her face, hardly breathing. Her fingers twitched as she struggled to recover, and the sight made Sam nauseous. If a mere demon could do this to her, what would a fallen archangel do to him?

"Hey, hey, hey," he murmured weakly as he stumbled to her aid. "Just take it easy." He knelt down next to her and gently gathered her in his arms. "I've got you. I'm gonna get you somewhere safe."

"Sam?" she asked uncertainly as he picked her up. "Sam Winchester?"

She must have been conscious during her possession—Sam didn't want to think about what she'd been forced to endure. "Yeah," he said. "That's me."

"Everyone's looking for you," she shakily warned him as he glanced around for the door. He happened to glimpse the steel-wire crate where he was trapped earlier, and he shuddered at the recent memory. Jacob would be furious at him for escaping, and if he didn't have Bela to protect, he might not have had the resolve to go through with his flight.

"It's gonna be okay," he told her as he ventured out of the room. His feet stung with every step, and it took all his strength not to drop the poor woman. Considering how thin she was, he shouldn't be having such difficulty, but his… experience… with Jacob left him faint. He had no idea how far he was going to get.

"I'm so sorry," Bela whispered, trembling. "I never wanted this."

"You didn't do anything wrong," he replied, pausing in the foyer to collect his wits. The main entrance stood across from a wooden staircase with a carved railing. His first instinct was to dash outside, find a boat and hightail it back to the mainland, but something stopped him. He had to think. Why was it so hard to think? His mind was preoccupied with Jacob, and how his brother would punish him for this behavior. Once he killed Dean, he would target John next. And then Bobby. Then Caleb, Ellen and Jo… everyone Sam cared about.

Except Cyrus.

Cyrus?

Sam blanched, abruptly recalling what Jacob said on the truck. _"Luckily, our friend here has access to a private island where we can stash you and Cyrus until the job is done."_

Cyrus was here, somewhere inside the house!

Frantic, Sam broadened his awareness and psychically searched for the little boy. He had to find him! Had to find him! Had to find him!

There! Trapped in a closet upstairs!

Without warning Bela, Sam turned and scrambled up to the second floor. She stiffened at the unexpected deviation. "Wait! Where are you going!?"

"I have to find my brother!"

"What? Dean?" She sounded confused. "He's not here, is he?"

Sam flushed. She was right, the Stynes weren't his family, and he _had_ to get that wretched notion out of his thick skull. Otherwise, he would never be free. "I mean, Jacob's brother. Cyrus. I have to find Cyrus."

Bela protested, but he tuned her out. He didn't care what anyone thought. Cyrus was _not_ a monster. He was not destined for evil. He could still be saved. He _had_ to be saved.

"CYRUS!" The door to the master bedroom was slightly ajar, making it easy for Sam to plow through, and as he carefully placed Bela on the double-wooden bed, he overheard his brother crying—a sound that made his heart heavy. "Cyrus…"

"Sam?" The boy's plaintive voice was muffled by the closet door. "SAM!"

"It's okay, Cyrus, I'm right here!" Unfortunately, this door was tightly shut and locked with a double-cylinder deadbolt, requiring a key. Damn. Who the hell put locks on a closet? If Sam hadn't mangled his feet trying to kick his way out of that crate earlier, he might have been able to break down the door, but now he was at a loss. Frustrated, he banged his fist against the unyielding barrier. "Just hold on, Cyrus! I'm gonna get you out!" Somehow.

"Here," Bela said. "Try this." When Sam glanced over his shoulder and found her offering a professional lock pick, he furrowed his brow in consternation. Where did she get that? Before he could ask, she smiled ruefully. "Don't mistake me for a distressed damsel. I'm usually not this pathetic."

"Thank you." Sam snatched the precious implement and hastily went to work on the deadbolt. His hands were shaking in a mixture of fear and impatience, which complicated matters, but soon enough the lock turned, and Sam yanked open the door. Dropping to his knees, he caught Cyrus in a crushing embrace, and found himself apologizing. "I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry! I shouldn't have left you. I didn't want to leave you, but it all happened so quickly. I didn't meant to…"

"I know," Cyrus assured him, sniffling. "Jacob told me. He said your dad forced you…" Beneath his fear and pain were traces of bitterness toward John. Sam couldn't say he was surprised—it made sense for Jacob to try turning Cyrus against the Winchesters—but he couldn't worry about that right now. He had to focus on getting off this island.

After a few more seconds, Sam leaned back to examine the boy. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Cyrus had lost some weight over the past month and was extremely pale with tear-stained eyes, but he didn't seem to have any injuries. Jacob might have been neglecting him, but he wasn't physically abusing him. Thank God for that.

"What about you?" Cyrus asked as Sam used Bela's lock pick to remove the handcuffs that fastened the boy's wrists in front of him. "Did Jacob hurt you?"

"I'm fine," Sam assured him, tossing the handcuffs aside. Cyrus immediately threw his arms around him, and Sam reciprocated, picking him up and turning to face Bela. She seemed to be gaining strength, but not quickly enough to walk on her own—which meant out of the three of them, the seven-year-old was in the best shape. "Okay, we've gotta go!"

Setting Cyrus back on his feet, Sam helped Bela off the bed. They leaned on each other, limping out of the room and back the way they came with Cyrus at their side.

"You should know," Bela said as they trudged down the stairs. "I didn't sail here on a boat. That demon bitch was able to teleport."

Sam cringed. "There's a boathouse by the dock. It's gotta have something in it, right?" Or else they'd be stranded. "Do either of you have a cell phone?"

"No," Cyrus mumbled. "Jacob says I'm too young and immature."

"I'm sorry," Bela added. "The demon left mine at home. She didn't seem to have a need for it."

Figures.

The front door was locked, but with Bela's pick, they quickly passed through. Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the dusk was foreboding—if Jacob had his way, this would be Dean's last night alive. The air was freezing, and the ocean waves were sloshing in a steady rhythm along the shore. Sam's throat constricted as they hastened toward a rustic, two-story boathouse with at least four open stalls. He could already feel it; they were bound to be empty. Shax only kept one boat on his island, and he had used it to ferry Jacob to the mainland.

Dean…

Sam had to save his brother!

But how?

 **SPN**

 **(New Jersey … Wednesday, December 2, 2005)**

To prevent Dean from beating him to their battleground and setting up an ambush, Jacob waited until eleven o'clock that night to text him the location. It was the longest day of Dean's life. Forbidden to raise the alarm, he was left waiting anxiously with Chaya and Rabbi Bass, trying to convince them he wasn't suicidal.

"I know it's a trap, rabbi, and I know Jacob has the advantage, but if he finds out I called for back-up when he specifically told me not to, I don't even want to think about how he'll punish Sam."

"He won't do anything to Sam if you succeed on your hunt," the rabbi pointed out. "But you can't do it on your own. You're too vulnerable. Jacob will kill you."

"Maybe," Dean allowed. "If you don't hear from me by two in the morning, assume the worst and call Bobby. But until then, I'm counting on Jacob's emotional instability. If he's half as attached to Sam as I suspect he is, then I'm the ultimate thorn in his side, and he'll want to be up close and personal when he kills me. That gives me a fighting chance."

"To do what, exactly? To kill him? Even if you pull that off, how do you intend to learn where he's keeping your brother? You might never find him!"

"Oh, I'll find him," Dean vowed. Pamela could probably help with that. If not, he could always resort to that necromantic talisman and compel Jacob's ghost to return his brother. But first thing's first. He was gonna gank that son of a bitch at any cost.

When the promised text finally came, Dean could hardly believe what it said. "Paulinskill Viaduct." What the hell?

The Paulinskill Viaduct was a reinforced concrete bridge (once a railroad) that spanned the Paulins Kill Valley, towering over a hundred feet above the ground with seven breathtaking arches. Each arch was decorated with a crown of smaller arches where steep passageways allowed trespassers and thrill-seekers to explore beneath the bridge's surface. Abandoned in the 80s, it became a graffitied monument of American engineering, and one of New Jersey's hidden treasures.

(Yes, Dean was familiar with the history. Years ago, during a stint in the area, he found himself competing with the high school quarterback for Carly Newell's attention, and they dared each other to go bungee jumping off the enormous structure. It was undoubtedly stupid, dangerous, and illegal, but at the time, well worth the risk.)

"Dean, wait!" Rabbi Bass objected. "I'm begging you, don't do this. Not by yourself."

"I have to," Dean stubbornly replied. Words could not begin to express his righteous fury. Not only had his brother been taken on his watch—again!—he had already suffered enough torment to last a lifetime. (And how would Dean ever look his father in the eye after this?) It had to stop. Dean would make it stop or he would die trying. It was that simple.

 **SPN**

After an hour-long drive, Dean pulled off to the side of a lonely road in the middle of the woods and silently scrutinized the large vehicle parked in front of him. A white semi-truck; this must be the place. He quickly switched off his headlights and cautiously ventured out of the Impala. Thankfully, it was a clear night with a bright moon and plenty of stars; otherwise, he'd be going in blind. Literally.

With all the stealth he could muster, Dean circled the truck. No signs of life; Jacob must have left it as some kind of lure. Dean reminded himself for the millionth time that he was charging headfirst into a trap, but couldn't bring himself to care. This fight had started over a year ago in Shreveport, and all he could think about was finally finishing it. No more delays.

Clutching his pistol, he advanced several paces down the road, keeping a sharp lookout for his quarry. Through the dark, he eventually glimpsed the viaduct's massive silhouette. In one of the arched chambers high above the ground, a golden light blazed provocatively. Jacob was ready for him, and Dean was too zealous to reconsider.

Scrambling off the road, he hiked up the hill with bloodthirsty focus. Adrenaline made the climb easy, and before he knew it, he was standing on the upper rim of the valley, at the edge of the bridge, overlooking countless trees. Most people would balk at the precarious height, especially since the bridge lacked sufficient guardrails, but Dean's only concern was the lack of cover. If Jacob decided to shoot him after all, he'd be a clear target with nowhere to hide.

But to hell with that. Jacob was going to pay for hurting Sam.

Dean marched forward, boots crunching along the rocky path that once featured train tracks—before they were torn up twenty years ago. If memory served him well, he would soon come across a tiny manhole where he would drop down into a crawlspace beneath the bridge. There! Perfectly round, like the mouth of a bottle, it beckoned him into its dark domain, and he didn't think twice.

Holstering his gun in favor a combat knife, Dean sat down, stuck his legs over the ledge, and slid through the hole. The cramped crawlspace would have been the perfect place for Jacob to ambush him—if Jacob merely wanted to kill him. But Dean knew the bastard well enough to expect a more dramatic confrontation. They hated each other too much for anything less.

With no outside light reaching the crawlspace, Dean couldn't see where he was going and fought the urge to whip out his cell phone—the last thing he needed was the screen light giving away his position. He remembered a second drop with iron rungs leading down into the first of several arched chambers, but one false step could spell disaster. He had to be careful.

He took his time, feeling around for the ledge. When he found it, he descended the built-in ladder with reckless abandon, conscious of his vulnerability. At last, he was standing directly on the load-bearing arch. The sequence of smaller, decorative arches between it and the bridge overhead formed a series of interlocking chambers that were open to the elements (perfect for bungee jumping). Originally, they were designed for maintenance workers to monitor the integrity of the concrete structure, but now they catered to spray painters, daredevils, and other delinquents.

Dean made his way up the curved floor to the next chamber, and then to the next, where he finally found the portable camping lantern that Jacob left for him. He stopped short, staring at it distrustfully. Experience warned him he was in over his head, right where Jacob wanted him. He couldn't see the son of a bitch, but he could feel him watching. He stood perfectly still, held his breath, and waited.

God knows what tipped him off, but suddenly, he spun on his heel and blocked Jacob as he struck from behind. As far as he could tell, the bastard wasn't brandishing any weapons, and he obviously wasn't expecting Dean to counter his preemptive attack, which immediately put him on the defensive. With his combat knife, Dean lashed out rabidly, and Jacob struggled to recover.

They traded blows for a good thirty seconds before separating to size each other up. "All right, you ass," Dean growled. "Enough's enough. What the hell did you do with my brother?"

Jacob sneered. "I'm going to enjoy ripping the flesh from your bones, Dean. And as for Sam—you can die knowing he'll spend the rest of his natural life under my protection."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author**_ _ **'s Note:**_ _The Paulinskill Viaduct is an actual bridge in New Jersey. I've never been to it, but I understand it's quite incredible. If my descriptions were confusing, go ahead and look it up. As always, let me know what you think! :-)_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	17. Enmity

**SPN**

 **(New Jersey … Wednesday, December 2, 2005)**

Jacob had to admit, Dean Winchester never ceased to amaze him. For an uncivilized high school drop-out with no roots and no real goals other than to slaughter vermin, the young man should not have been a match for any of the Stynes, much less Jacob himself. By all rights, Dean was simply a tool, his father's attack dog, a mindless grunt who got his kicks from drinking, gambling, and sleeping around.

At least, that was Jacob's initial impression of him. When Elizabeth first exposed the legacies back in the fall of 2004, Sam was the only Winchester who fit their mold. He was the academic—the young, smart, gifted college student who clearly belonged with the elites. He was everything a legacy should be. John and Dean? They barely qualified. John was an old, washed-out ape, and Dean was a vulgar nobody.

But as Jacob soon learned, appearances could be deceiving. When Dean fought—especially for his kin—he was in a league of his own. Never before had Jacob encountered an ordinary man who could grapple with a physically enhanced titan. Granted, it took more than muscle to win a fight; it also took stamina, speed, and precision. Dean proved to be one of those rare creatures who embodied each of those disciplines, and then some.

Now, as they faced each other on the arch of a massive bridge over a hundred feet above the ground, Jacob suffered a strange epiphany that he and Dean were much alike. They were both warriors, first-born sons devoted to their families, and heirs to their respective dynasties. Dean _was_ a legacy—a unique legacy.

As dull and sanctimonious as the Stynes described the Men of Letters, they always admired them. Monroe often claimed they could conquer the world with their limitless knowledge and resources—they had the ability to fuel their magic with the power of their very souls! But they were scholars and sages, not heroes. They deliberately restrained themselves, hiding behind their rules and regulations in the interest of their tedious morality.

Dean wasn't like them. He did not represent the Men of Letters that were… However, he might represent the Men of Letters that could be… If he so desired, he could reclaim and utterly revolutionize his heritage, forging a new dynasty superior to the old. He had the potential to become a true and dangerous leader—he just didn't know it yet.

Naturally, the moment Jacob considered this, he despised it. Dean had to die. Jacob was in the middle of rebuilding his own dynasty, and he couldn't let a damn hunter get in his way. No, he was depending on Sam to recover the lost secrets of his forefathers, which they would harness to reclaim their family's honor. They couldn't allow Dean to jeopardize that; they had to put him down once and for all.

No more stalling.

Jacob launched himself at his enemy, expecting Dean to sidestep—which he did. Jacob followed through by leaping at the wall, springing off it, and swinging his leg around to kick Dean in the head. When the hunter careened to his hands and knees, Jacob dove after him, but Dean recovered quickly, rolling out of the way. He brandished his knife, fending Jacob off as he got back to his feet.

In close quarters, knives could be far more lethal than other weapons. At full speed, attackers could thrust a dozen times before the victim even processed the assault. Dean didn't hesitate; he came at ninety-miles-an-hour, aiming for Jacob's belly. Anyone else would have balked at his fury, but Jacob deflected his jabs with indifference. He barely felt the blade nicking his flesh and knew he would heal quickly, so he focused on butting Dean's head.

Once again, the hunter hit the ground, but this time, he swept Jacob's legs out from under him. Jacob landed hard on his back, grimacing in irritation. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Dean bearing down on him with the knife. He crossed his forearms to block the strike, which gave Dean an opening to hook him in the jaw with his free hand—repeatedly.

Heedless of the knife, Jacob pushed up and body-slammed the impertinent bastard, tackling him to the ground. Dean squirmed, attempting to stab him, but Jacob managed to pin his arm down with his knee. He made a grab for Dean's throat, prompting Dean to bend his legs and catapult Jacob over his head. Jacob somersaulted back to his feet and spun around in time to snatch Dean's wrist as he slashed at him.

In a fluid motion, Jacob twisted Dean's arm behind his back, but somehow, Dean managed to pivot, spinning around and punching him in the nose. He followed through with several more swipes that Jacob danced around until he found an opening to retaliate with a forward kick. As Dean stumbled backwards, Jacob delivered a spinning wheel kick that brought him to his knees.

"How long do you expect to keep this up, Dean? Cause I'm just getting started." Jacob watched with a sneer as the hunter regained his footing. They squared off, and Jacob was pleased to see the sweat glistening on Dean's brow. "What makes you think you deserve Sam? You can't protect him from Azazel. You can't help him hone his abilities. Hell, you're a hunter—you don't even like his abilities, do you? Face it, Dean. I love Sam for who he really is. You only love him for what you want him to be."

"Shut up!" Dean angrily hurled the knife at Jacob, who easily sidestepped. He glanced over his shoulder to observe the weapon smack the wall before hitting the ground, where it clattered precariously close to the edge of the arch. That was a rash move. Unless… He glanced back at Dean to find the hunter aiming a pistol at his leg.

He squeezed the trigger.

Jacob tensed as the bullet hit his thigh. It wasn't nearly painful enough to cripple him, but at this distance, Dean could still aim for his head, and that would be devastating. Jacob forced his leg to buckle and dropped to the ground, giving Dean a false sense of security. He grunted, glaring up at his enemy in disgust.

Dean shook his head, too pissed to gloat. With his gun trained on Jacob, he spoke through gritted teeth. "Where. Is. My. Brother?"

Jacob leaned towards him provocatively. "You really wanna know? He's with Shax—the demon that branded the family crest on his wrist." Dean flinched, much to Jacob's amusement. "Even as we speak, baby brother's being treated to tribal tattoos all over his face, neck and torso. He'll be scarred for life."

"You son of a bitch." Dean launched himself at Jacob, preparing to throw an overhanded punch, but at the last moment, Jacob dodged. Realizing his mistake, Dean whirled back around, but Jacob was too fast for him, seizing his arm and yanking it forward to pull Dean's stomach straight into his knee. Incredibly, the stubborn bastard absorbed the kick and countered with an uppercut. Jacob fell back a few paces, and Dean struggled to aim his gun.

"No you don't!" Jacob crouched down and swept Dean's legs out from under him. As Dean landed heavily on the ground, Jacob reached for the gun and plucked it from his grasp. Without a second thought, he pitched it over the side of the bridge where it would do no further damage. "I told Sam I'd make your death quick and clean, but you know what? After everything you've done, I'm gonna break every bone in your body."

Dean met his gaze fearlessly. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Snarling, Jacob went to stomp him in the head, but Dean rolled out of the way. He clambered to his feet and kicked Jacob from the side. This led to a brutal round of brawling, where they traded blows without reservation. Jacob couldn't fathom how Dean was still standing. Legacy or not, the hunter was just one man while Jacob was an enhanced tank. It didn't make any damn sense. "You can't keep this up forever!"

"Oh, I don't know," Dean replied. "Death threats are very motivating." He struck Jacob's thigh, directly on the bullet wound, which admittedly stung, distracting him long enough for Dean to throw a spinning back fist across his face. (As powerful as Jacob was, Dean required as much momentum as possible for his attacks to make a difference.) He kicked Jacob in the groin and shoved him toward the edge of the arch—it was all Jacob could do to catch his balance before tumbling off the side. A fall might not kill him, but it would be inconvenient.

By now, Dean was panting heavily. He shrank back several steps, reluctant to charge Jacob while he was standing on the precipice, and took a moment to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Jacob briefly thought back to their fight in Shreveport. Even then, Dean held his own, despite a shoulder injury. He had always been impressive, but his skills had greatly improved over time. He must have spent the past year training for this inevitable rematch.

Rolling his shoulders, Jacob advanced impatiently. He feinted to the right before attacking from the left. Dean took the hit with shocking resilience, countering with an explosive string of punches. For the next few minutes, the outside world seemed to fade, leaving nothing behind but animal ferocity. Jacob could taste iron in his mouth. As they bobbed back and forth, batting limbs and locking joints, they became extensions of each other—one relentless storm.

Finally, Jacob managed to get a firm grip on his rival, swinging him around and shoving his back against the concrete wall. Dean grunted, and Jacob slammed his forearm against his throat, compressing with all his might. Dean's eyes widened, and he floundered desperately, struggling in vain to dislodge his killer—for Jacob was determined to kill him. Slowly.

Savoring the moment, he watched as Dean's strength began to fade. He couldn't breathe, and soon, he'd be sufficiently debilitated for the real fun to begin. Jacob leaned in close, whispering, "You were never good enough for him. You're just a weak, pathetic failure."

"Jacob, stop!"

Sam?

Jacob glanced to his left, and Dean followed with his eyes, to catch sight of their little brother standing six feet away. Sam wore a haunted expression on his pale face, and as he glanced helplessly between the two men, he seemed half his age. It was adorable, and despite himself, Jacob relaxed his hold on Dean—just enough to prevent him from passing out. He would hear what Sam had to say, and proceed accordingly.

"Now where did you come from?" he asked, taking stock of his brother's appearance. Sam couldn't have escaped the island; Shax assured him that he had dispatched his other yachts and severed all means of external communication. Sam's only option would be to swim, and he was in no condition to cross four miles. Jacob smiled, conscious of the boy's passivity and pallor. "I'll be damned. You're not astral projecting, are you?"

That would explain why Sam wasn't trying to yank him off Dean. He couldn't. Astral projection was an out-of-body experience where the soul escaped its bondage to the physical realm and traveled freely through the spirit world. Only powerful psychics and witches could accomplish such a feat, especially over so great a distance, and as far as Jacob knew, Sam had yet to be trained in the art. It was extraordinary.

"Jacob, you have to listen to me," Sam begged, unable to hide his urgency. "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up… We don't have a lot of time."

"No kidding," Jacob marveled. "Careful, Sam. Astral projection is a strenuous activity. You could slip into a coma, and we wouldn't want that." Dean jerked, obviously alarmed by Jacob's words, but Jacob had him pinned, and he couldn't break free. Sam flinched at the hunter's treatment.

"Let him go. Please."

Jacob clucked his tongue. "We've been through this, little brother. Dean's more trouble than he's worth, and we're all better off without him. Especially you."

"No!" Sam shook his head. "You don't understand. I need his help." Jacob sighed, rolling his eyes, but Sam wasn't deterred. "Please, Jacob. I need your help, too. It's Elizabeth. She came to me in a dream, cause I killed Victor, and she wanted to thank me by warning me of her plans to reunite with Doc Benton. She's gonna make a deal with Azazel!"

Now that caught Jacob's attention. "What!?" The hostility in his voice made Sam fall back a step.

"She's searching for something called the Book of the Damned, and if she finds it, she can use one of the spells to accelerate the demon's plans for me. In return, she wants him to restore Doc Benton. We have to stop her, or… or…" He faltered, too distraught to continue, not that Jacob could blame him. Spells from the Book should never be taken lightly—they were capable of extreme evil and always came with a heavy price.

"Or what, Sam?" Curiosity got the best of him. Jacob _had_ to know why Azazel wanted his little brother. The details of his 'destiny' were still too vague.

Sam shuddered, glancing nervously at Dean. No, not nervously… Insecurely. He was self-conscious, and couldn't bear to admit the truth. "Jacob, if you care about me at all, you'll go with me on this. Elizabeth has to be stopped, or she'll destroy everything—including our family. We need all the help we can get, so please… don't kill Dean. We need to work together."

Jacob hesitated, torn between mixed emotions. He was still pissed at Lilibet—the treacherous snake—and of course he'd do everything in his power to prevent the demon from claiming Sam. It was heartwarming to hear the boy ask for his help, but then, to hear him intercede for Dean was equally infuriating. "No. Forget it, Sammy. I don't need the likes of Dean Winchester to put Lilibet in her place. I can handle her myself."

Sam grimaced, clenching his eyes shut and pressing his hand against his head. _Jacob, listen to me!_ He spoke telepathically, shutting Dean out of the conversation. What a rush! Sam was confiding in him. Him! Instead of Dean! They were making progress, and not even a real emergency could spoil Jacob's mood.

 _It's Lucifer,_ Sam told him. _Jacob, Elizabeth wants to help free Lucifer from Hell! And if she does, apparently I'm his… his vessel._

Ah. Now that explained everything. True, it was cause for alarm, but once Jacob saved the day—and he would—then Sam would learn to trust him fully. Any dependence he had on Dean would be lost, and Jacob would finally take his place. Forever.

 **SPN**

Dean couldn't be certain, but if he had to guess, based on their demeanors, Sam and Jacob were in the middle of a private argument. Oh, hell no. Any psychic connection they shared would only intensify their bond. It had to stop. Sam wasn't Jacob's brother; he was Jacob's captive, and Dean would move heaven and earth to rescue him.

Taking advantage of this timely distraction, he reached for his pocket knife and snapped it open. Without wavering, he rammed it as viciously as possible straight into Jacob's eye—one of the few vital areas that might actually hurt him. And sure enough, Jacob howled, recoiling violently as blood gushed over his face.

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch!"

Sam shook his head in full-blown panic. "DEAN, WAIT!"

 _Sorry, Sam._

No holding back. Dean launched himself at Jacob, shoving him roughly to the edge of the arch. Still dazed by the assault, Jacob failed to counter, and Dean mercilessly kicked him over the brink. He shouted, plummeting over a hundred feet into the valley below with nothing to grab, and nothing to break his fall. Dean peered after him, hoping to see him smash against the ground, but it was too dark, and the only confirmation he had of Jacob's defeat was the abrupt silence.

And what exactly did that prove?

Crap.

Breathing heavily, Dean wiped his forehead and glanced over his shoulder at Sam. The look on the kid's face, the shock and fear, was gut-wrenching, but ultimately for the best.

"Dean," Sam whispered brokenly, with tears in his eyes. "What did you do?"

"What I had to, Sammy…" Dean approached his brother in concern. He wasn't really here; Jacob said he was astral projecting, which meant his physical body remained wherever the bastard put him—possibly still in duress. "Where are you, kiddo? Talk to me. Where did Jacob leave you?"

Sam stared at him, visibly shaken by what he just witnessed. It took him a moment to recover. "I… I'm on a private island off the coast of Connecticut, with Cyrus and a woman named Bela. She gave me the coordinates… They're…" He winced, obviously in pain. Jacob said astral projection was a strenuous activity, and it was starting to take its toll. "41.2488 degrees north and 72.8331 degrees west. Dean, we're stranded. We can't escape."

Dean groaned. "All right, don't worry. Help's on the way, Sam. I promise. Just sit tight."

Sam wasn't listening. Something else caught his attention, and he jumped, scrambling backwards in pure dread.

Dean's heart skipped a beat. "Sammy?"

"It's Jacob. I can sense him. Dean, he's alive!"

Before Dean could process the implications, his brother's apparition blinked like a ghost and was gone.

 **SPN**

At the bottom of the valley, Jacob slowly regained consciousness. He found himself lying sprawled out on his back, saved by his enhancements. God damn Dean Winchester! Mindful of the pain, he yanked the pocket knife from his bloody eye socket and hurled it as far away as he could. That little bastard! Never before had Jacob ever hated anyone as fiercely as he hated Dean. "I'm going to kill you! I'm going to shred you to pieces!"

"Jacob?" Shax was darting toward him through the trees. He had been watching the action from afar—much to Jacob's embarrassment—and now, despite orders not to interfere, he hastened to his ally's aid. "Get up. We have to go."

Jacob glared at him in contempt. "I'm not going anywhere! I have a job to finish!"

Shax scoffed. "After a fall like that? I don't care how enhanced you are. You're hurt, and to make things worse, that vampire you told me about is sniffing around our truck with his hunting buddies. We've been here too long, and they've caught up. We don't have a choice; we have to retreat."

Jacob bellowed angrily. How did this happen!? He was so close!

Gazing up at the arch that towered above him, Jacob pictured Dean standing alone with Sam, and burning jealousy flared through every fiber of his soul. "He'll pay for this, Shax. I don't care what it takes, but he's going to pay."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author**_ _ **'s Note:**_ _I figured Jacob could survive a fall like that. After all, Eldon jumped out a third-story window in "Dark Dynasty" without much difficulty, so why not? Lol._

 _I hope this chapter met everyone's expectations. Fight scenes are incredibly hard to write!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	18. Stubbornness

**SPN**

 **(New Jersey … Thursday, December 3, 2005)**

Rabbi Bass did not wait for two o'clock in the morning to call Bobby as Dean instructed. Rather, he called Bobby the instant Dean left the house, and luckily, the old man was already in the state with John, Rufus and Benny. The vampire was still tracking their enemy's scent, and for some reason, Jacob wasn't covering as much ground as rapidly as before. Now they knew why.

They sped to the Paulinskill Viaduct as fast as their vehicles could manage, and when they found the Impala parked behind a Mack truck—both seemingly abandoned on the side of a lonely road—their fear threatened to engulf them. The thought of Dean out in the middle of nowhere, by himself, with a psychotic monster gunning for him, shook Bobby to the core. He could trust Jacob not to kill Sam, but Dean? Dean was a different story.

"All right, let's fan out," John said after a thorough search of the truck proved uneventful. "Find Dean, and if you happen to run into Jacob, kill him."

"On it, chief," Benny replied, disappearing into the shadows. If he could locate the Styne, chances were he'd stumble upon the Winchester. He was still their best bet, so Bobby sprang after him, praying for Dean's safety. God… If anything happened to that boy, the old hunter wasn't sure how he'd cope with the grief.

 **SPN**

The climb down from the viaduct was undoubtedly more grueling than the climb up. Dean might as well have been hit by a bus; his entire body throbbed, his throat seemed to be on fire, and his legs were threatening to give out. The terrain was steep and harsh, especially in the dark, and it took all his concentration not to trip—he couldn't afford to break an ankle.

Jacob was still alive. The fall didn't kill him, and by now he might already be waiting at the Impala to ambush Dean. Freaking terminator. None of his other relatives were this difficult to gank. Why did he have to be so invulnerable? Why wouldn't he just die already? Gasping for breath, and fresh out of adrenaline, Dean pushed through his fatigue. No time to rest; he had to find a weapon and finish the job, or it would all be for nothing.

"DEAN!?"

The moment he crashed out from the trees and onto the road, Dean found himself standing in the beam of a blinding flashlight. He stopped short, instantly on guard, until he recognized the familiar voice of his father. "Dad?" He couldn't hide his shock. Where did he come from? How did he get here? How did he even know…?

Dean stiffened. It didn't matter how John knew. It only mattered that he knew. He knew about the fight with Jacob, which meant he knew about Sam's abduction, which meant he was righteously pissed off. To make things worse, not only did the crime happen on Dean's watch, it happened while Dean was sleeping in on Aaron Bass' waterbed. This was all Dean's fault, and there was nothing he could say to explain himself.

Sure enough, John took one look at his son and angrily punched him in the face. Lacking both the strength and resolve to absorb the blow, Dean hit the ground hard, head spinning. In the distance, he thought he heard the startled cry of another man. Rufus?

"Hey! What the hell, Johnny? Can't you see the boy's been clobbered already?"

While John was technically not an abusive parent, he never shied away from belting his children when they misbehaved. In Dean's mind, he fully deserved the punishment, and wasn't quick to complain. Still, it hurt like none other, and when Dean felt his father's grip on his jacket, he braced himself more.

"Get up!" John hauled Dean to his feet, voice hoarse with fury. He struck Dean again, knocking him into a tree, and this time, Dean tasted blood.

"Hey!" Rufus sidled between them and shoved John backwards. "What's the matter with you!? That's your son!"

John barreled past him, getting right in Dean's face. "Jacob takes your brother, and you have the nerve not to call me!? Or even Bobby!?" Dean averted his eyes, overcome with shame, barely reacting when John seized his collar. "Just how stupid are you? Damn it, Dean, I could have lost you tonight! Jacob could have killed you, and I wouldn't have been the wiser! What were you thinking, not calling me!?"

Dean flashed back to that night, sixteen or seventeen years ago, when a shtriga attacked his brother. It was Dean's fault; he left Sam alone to play a damn arcade game, and the cost was nearly fatal. When John found out, his words were devastating. _"I told you not to leave this room. I told you not to let him out of your sight!"_ Dean never forgave himself, and John never trusted him again—not completely.

"BOBBY!" Rufus hollered through the trees, uncomfortable with the tense situation. "BOBBY, OVER HERE!"

Dean barely registered the sound of others charging through the woods—he was too distraught. "I wanted to tell you, dad, but I couldn't. Jacob said he would hurt Sam. He threatened to cut out his tongue!"

John scowled. "And you believed him? Use your head, Dean! He might be crazy, but he's not going to mutilate someone he considers family. He was bluffing, and you bought right into it. God, boy! You're no good to your brother if you're dead!"

"But he's not dead, Johnny!" Rufus interceded. "In fact, as far as I can figure, he came out on top. He's sure beat to hell, but he's still standing, and you should be proud of him for that!"

Abruptly, John yanked Dean forward, wrapping his arms around him in a firm embrace. Dean wasn't sure what to make of it, and was too exhausted to care. Just ten minutes ago, he was in the heat of battle, wondering if he'd get out alive. He was still reeling from Jacob's brutality and the implications of Sam's brief appearance, and he wasn't composed enough to process such compassion—especially from his father. Instead of returning the hug, he began trembling violently.

"Are you all right?" John pulled back, holding Dean at arm's length to get another look at him, but he didn't have time to answer. At that moment, Bobby emerged from the trees, along with a bulky stranger in a pea coat with a fisherman's cap.

"Oh, thank God!" Bobby crossed over to the Winchesters, and while he wasn't presumptuous enough to pull Dean away from his father, he still planted a firm hand on his shoulder. "You had us scared to death, boy! What were you thinking?"

Dean flinched, and found himself staring at the ground. "We don't have time for this… Yes, I panicked, and I'm sorry, but Jacob's out there somewhere, hopefully hurt, and we have to find him before he recovers. We have to kill him."

"Nah, it's too late for that," the stranger said in a calm, Cajun voice. Dean recognized it from their phone call four weeks ago. He was the vampire, Benny. "Jacob ain't here. I don't know how, but the trail's gone cold, as if he up and vanished. It'll take some doing for me to catch his scent again." He shrugged apologetically while Dean froze, thoughts running wild.

"I know where Sam is!" he exclaimed. "But we have to leave now, or Jacob might beat us to him!" And if Jacob moved Sam off the island, they'd be right back where they started. They had to hurry, before it was too late.

 **SPN**

 **(Connecticut … Thursday, December 3, 2005)**

Camped out in the foyer of the Tudor house, Cyrus kept a faithful watch over his unconscious friend. Sam had been lying on the oriental carpet with a pillow tucked under his head for hours now, ever since they realized they were trapped, with no means of calling for help. Shax apparently went out of his way to strand them, and not even Bela—who claimed to specialize in 'shipping,' whatever that meant—could devise an escape plan. At least not by her normal tactics.

It was her idea for Sam to astral project. She might not be a psychic herself, but she had dealings with psychics in the past, and felt confident she could guide Sam through the basic process. Of course, when it came down to the nuts and bolts of the technique, he'd be on his own, forced to rely on instinct, but Bela assured him he had the potential to pull it off. He wasn't pleased when she described him as the single-most powerful psychic she had ever met, but they were out of options, so he followed her lead. After what felt like an eternity of mental preparation, practice attempts and false starts, he finally passed out, and now, in the early hours of the morning, he had yet to wake.

Curled up on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees, Cyrus glared at Bela whenever she entered the room—since Sam was indisposed, she began scavenging the house for useful 'assets,' such as her dagger from the living room, and food from the kitchen. She offered Cyrus an unopened bag of chips, but he wouldn't touch it, not until he knew Sam was okay. Bela didn't seem to mind; she treated him more like an afterthought than a person of interest. In her mind, he was just a child, neither useful nor threatening. Just extra weight.

Eventually, without realizing it, Cyrus began dozing off—he wanted to be there for Sam, but he was past his limit. Tired, frightened, and sick at heart, he didn't have his brother's stamina, and despite the danger, sleep would not be denied—at least not until the front door was torn from its hinges.

Jerking back to life, Cyrus stood in alarm as an enormous stranger in a navy pea coat appeared in the entrance. He growled, glancing from the boy to the unconscious hunter and back again, but before he could say a word, Bela stepped between them, brandishing her dagger. "I'm warning you, don't even think about it!"

Unimpressed, the stranger launched himself at her and easily snatched her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back. She screamed, cursing hysterically, until four other men arrived to settle her nerves.

"SAMMY!"

Cyrus scurried away, cowering in the corner, as Dean Winchester bee-lined for his brother. He fell to the ground, inspecting Sam's condition while tears brimmed in his eyes. "Sammy!? Sammy!"

Any compassion Cyrus might have felt for Dean's distress quickly faded as he glimpsed John Winchester's fearsome profile. Even though the hunter wore a disguise on the night of the wedding, Cyrus could not mistake his identity. He was the man who killed his brother, his father, several of his cousins, and his aunt. He was a monster, and now, as he approached Bela with a suspicious frown, he seemed ten feet tall. Cyrus never felt more like a mouse.

"Bela," John said in a deep, cold voice. "Just the lady I've been looking for."

She brazenly met his gaze. "I'm not possessed, John. Sam exorcized the bitch, I swear."

"Christo."

When Bela didn't so much as flinch, John nodded at her captor, and he released her arm. She grimaced, rubbing it gingerly while checking for a bruise or hand print.

"What happened to Sam?" John asked in a gentler tone, as if to make up for his initial hostility. "Why's he unconscious?"

"You don't know?" Bela seemed surprised. "Then how'd you find us?" John growled impatiently, prompting her to add, "Don't worry, he's perfectly fine. Just exhausted. He was astral projecting for help, and now his body's recovering."

Dean glanced up desperately. "He's unresponsive! Jacob said something about a coma!"

"It's not a coma," Bela said with a sigh. "Relax. I've been keeping tabs on him, and he's stronger than he looks. Now why don't we get the hell out of here and finish this discussion somewhere safe from the Stynes?"

"That's not a bad idea," a bearded man agreed. He wore a trucker's hat and carried a rifle—Cyrus gasped at the sight, which caught everyone's attention. They all turned to stare at him, expressions ranging from surprise to confusion to resent to hatred. Cyrus shrank in on himself as John towered over him.

"Oh, I'd be careful if I were you," Bela cautioned, observing the hunter's attitude. "Sam won't thank you for damaging that one. He's deeply attached."

"Tell me something I don't know," John grumbled, kneeling down so he and Cyrus were eye-level. Cyrus found it hard to breathe; he was staring at an abusive killer! He didn't want to die.

"Please don't hurt me."

John cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you. But I have to figure out what to do with you. Sam claims you're innocent, that you don't want anything to do with your damn family, but right now, his judgment's compromised, and I've got no reason to trust you. I could leave you behind, but then Jacob will keep using you as leverage. I could take you with us, but then you might betray us. It's a hard call."

"I won't betray you," Cyrus assured him, but John scoffed.

"Oh, really? Prove it."

Cyrus flinched, instantly at a loss for words. Their families despised each other, and nothing he said—nothing Sam said—would ever change John's mind about him.

"Would you back off already?" The bearded man stormed up behind John, who stood, glaring at him. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll watch the kid, but Bela's right. We have to get the hell outta here. Now."

 **SPN**

Elizabeth wasn't sure why she chose Lily Dale, New York—of all places—for this moment. It wasn't really 'the most psychic town in America.' That was just PR. In her professional opinion, it was simply an amusement park of charlatans, but she lived among their ranks for several months, basking in freedom from her family, until she met Dean on that fateful September night. It all started here. Where else should it end?

With a large satchel draped across her body, she stole into a dark and quiet gift shop where some self-proclaimed 'Wiccan' peddled New Age crap. Flicking her wrist, she telekinetically shoved all the merchandise out of her way and took up residence in the middle of the room. As she dropped to the ground, removing the necessary supplies from her bag, she tried not to consider the possibility of rejection. Her plan would only work if Azazel played along.

Anxiously, with trembling hands, she took some chalk and began shaping an occult symbol on the floor. Then, she lit some candles and spoke a Latin invocation. Finally, she sliced her palm with a knife and splattered the symbol with her blood. There. She was done. Climbing to her feet, she noticed a display of colorful scarves and eagerly swiped one to bandage her wound.

"Why, if it ain't the prettiest little doll on earth," came a sly voice from behind. Elizabeth whipped around to see a huge man watching her with yellow eyes. He stood as tall as Sam, but with an extra forty pounds in muscle, making him far more menacing than she remembered. Dressed in ripped jeans and a military field jacket, he looked ready for a scuffle, and despite everything, Elizabeth shied away from him. Azazel feigned concern. "What's the matter, sweetheart? I don't make you nervous, do I?"

"No," she denied, but a slight quiver in her voice gave her away. She paused, steeling herself. "I realize you're very busy, so I'll try to make this brief. I believe we can help each other." Raising his eyebrows, Azazel crossed his arms and shifted his weight—condescending bastard. "I know you're displeased with my family's mutiny, but don't forget, I hate them too. We're natural allies."

"Go on."

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth extracted a thick, ancient tome from her satchel. The Book of the Damned. She finally found it buried in the ruins of a Spanish monastery. Tossing her hair over her shoulders, she glanced up to see recognition—and lust—on Azazel's face.

"Now where did you dig that up?"

"Doesn't matter," she replied. "The important thing is I can read it. And if we work together, I can break not just sixty-six, but all six hundred, of the seals on Lucifer's cage—all at once. Isn't that your heart's desire?"

The demon whistled. "I admit, I'm impressed. Monroe would be so proud." Elizabeth flinched, and Azazel sneered. "I like you, doll. I really do. Thanks to your fortune-telling savvy, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt Sam's the One, which is a big time saver—you have no idea. I owe ya one. But you're not offering your expertise free of charge, and why should I pay when I could just take the book and figure it out myself?"

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "I think you'll find I've grown more powerful than my mother. I'm prepared to fight you, but why not take the path of least resistance? Even if I surrendered the book, the spell in question calls for a ritual performed on the longest night of the year—winter solstice. Can you translate the text, break the code, and make the necessary preparations in under three weeks? I can. And I promise, I'm not asking for much in return. You can easily afford it."

The demon hesitated, considering his options, when something off to the side of the room caught his attention. His eyes lit up, and when Elizabeth followed his gaze, she was startled to see an apparition of the youngest Winchester.

"Sam!?" Was he _astral projecting_? When did he learn a trick like that?

Sam glanced from Elizabeth to the demon in open horror.

Azazel grinned. "Howdy, squirt. I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Stay away from me!"

The demon spread his arms. "But there's so much we can accomplish together!"

Sam ignored him, turning wildly to Elizabeth. "You can't do this! Please! Don't do this!"

Her heart fluttered at his desperation. "Sam…"

"I know what it's like to lose someone. I lost Jess! And yeah, I'd do just about anything to see her again, but not at the world's expense. Please, Elizabeth. I'll help you find some other way to regenerate Thomas, but you've got to stop this. I'm begging you."

Tears brimmed in Elizabeth's eyes, but she stubbornly shook her head. "No, Sam. I'm sorry, but I'm not gonna second-guess myself. My mind's made up."

Azazel started laughing.

Sam gazed at Elizabeth with a broken expression—it nearly crippled her resolve. But then, the energy required to maintain his projection sapped out of him, and he disappeared.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	19. Not Your Fault

_**Author's Note:**_ _So, this chapter isn't as long as I originally planned, but that's only because this scene took on a life of its own. (I love it when that happens!) I hope you enjoy all the angst, and let me know what you think!_

 **SPN**

 **(New York … Thursday, December 3, 2005)**

Once they reached the mainland in the cabin cruiser that Benny 'acquired,' John led their caravan southwest, straight into Queens, where Bela happened to own a luxury condo. While she wasn't typically known for hospitality, she loathed being in debt, and recognized her obligation to Sam for rescuing her. Offering him shelter while he remained unconscious was the very least she could do.

They traveled in four separate vehicles. John and Bela took the Sierra Grande. Bobby drove the Impala while Dean sat in the back with his brother. Rufus brought Cyrus in Bobby's Chevelle, and Benny rode a motorcycle. When they reached the condo, John and Bobby carried Sam from the parking garage to Bela's unit, where they eased him onto an expensive white couch. Dean wanted to help, but exhaustion was getting the best of him, and soon he was leaning on Rufus for support.

Once Sam was settled, Bela took one look at Dean's battered face and directed him to the bathroom. "You'll find a first aid kit in the medicine cabinet."

"Let's get you cleaned up," Rufus advised, and Dean lacked the energy to object. This must be how zombies felt. By the time they returned, John and Bobby were grilling Bela on what she remembered from her possession. She seemed haunted by the experience, but also indignant, and if the hunters could gank those demonic bastards, she'd be happy to cooperate.

Dean sank into an uncomfortable white chair at the glass dining table. He buried his face in his arms and listened dejectedly as Bela labeled the yellow-eyed demon a cunning chess master. "I was taken by the damn thing's daughter, and not even she could tell you his real end game. They want Sam to lead in the coming war against humanity, but why they need a 'boy king,' as she liked to call him, is anyone's guess. She suspects they're going to groom him for something unspeakably evil, but the details are rather ambiguous. All I know for sure is they think it's destiny. They think Sam was born for this, and with the proper guidance, he'll become the man he's meant to be. Whole. They'll do absolutely anything to get their hands on him, and they're not happy with Jacob for encroaching on their authority."

Dean raised his head. "Don't tell Sam that." He glanced briefly at John, then averted his eyes. "I never explained how I learned the coordinates to that island…" When the vampire mentioned how Jacob disappeared from the viaduct, Dean was too frantic to rescue Sam to articulate much of anything, and John shared his urgency, so they followed Dean's lead, no questions asked. "Sam astral projected… He appeared to us while Jacob and I were fighting."

Bela smiled. "I knew he could do it."

Dean made a face. "But Sam wasn't just there to contact me. He was there for Jacob, too. Apparently, he had a dream of Elizabeth, and now he thinks she's gonna use some kind of spell from—get this—the Book of the Damned—to negotiate with Yellow Eyes for Doc Benton."

As soon as he mentioned the book, Bela blanched and Bobby grimaced. "Balls!"

Rufus furrowed his brow. "The Book of the Damned? Ain't that a myth?"

"When's anything ever a myth?" John grumbled. "Do you have any idea what the demon could do with that thing?"

"Accelerate his plans," Dean said, "whatever they are. And I think Sam knows. He asked Jacob to spare my life, not because we're brothers, but because he wants the two of us to work together to stop whatever it is from happening. He's desperate, and the more convinced he is that Jacob and the demon are enemies, the more he'll want his help."

John clenched his fists and glared at Cyrus, who sat cowering in the corner, curled up on the floor. "This night keeps getting better and better." He took a deep breath, rubbed his jaw, and focused back on Bela. "All right, if Jacob and Yellow Eyes hate each other, how did you end up on that island? Wouldn't Jacob take precautions to prevent the demons from finding Sam?"

Bela nodded. "Yes, but he was betrayed. Remember that demon you exorcised down in New Orleans? Shax?"

"You mean the son of a bitch that tattooed Sam's wrist?"

"Exactly. He and the Stynes go way back. They're good friends. When Jacob heard about the exorcism, he cracked open a devil's gate and sprang him from hell. They've been working together, but Shax can't be trusted. He's still a demon, and he knows how risky it is to test Azazel's wrath. He's playing both sides, and leaked Sam's location to protect his sorry ass, should Azazel ever question his allegiance."

"He can find us." Cyrus had such a soft, meek voice that he almost went unheard, but John was too vigilant to overlook any activity from his direction.

"What did you say?"

Cyrus cringed. "I'm sorry. I should've mentioned it earlier, but I was scared, and I forgot."

"Forgot what?" John demanded. He took a threatening step forward, but Bobby cut him off.

"Go easy on him. He's just a kid."

They all turned to stare expectantly at Cyrus, which made him gulp. "The demon… Shax… He tattoos people with soot from his own black smoke… So they're connected… Linked… Shax can zero in on Sam's location, no matter where he is… That's how Jacob found him in New Jersey. They can find us here, too."

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered.

Bela groaned. "Terrific."

Bobby, Rufus and Benny exchanged worried looks. If Shax could find Sam anywhere, how could they possibly protect him from Jacob?

"We have to remove that tattoo," John growled, bearing down on Bela. "Tell me you can remove it—to hell with the price! Sam saved your life exorcizing that demon. You owe him."

Bela flinched. "Come on. I'm a thief, not a miracle worker. That tattoo's demonic, and the only one who can remove it is the demon who put it there." Despite her nerves, she held John's gaze emphatically, and he reluctantly backed away. After all, they couldn't help Sam by grasping at straws. They needed a real plan.

Benny sighed. "I reckon we could trap the demon. Jacob too. We've got the perfect bait."

 _Bait._ Dean could taste the bile rising in the back of his throat. Exploding to his feet, he turned to square off against the vampire. "The _hell_ did you just say?"

Benny raised his hands in calm surrender. "You're scared of losing your brother. I get it. But a storm's coming, whether you like it or not, and you can either spend the rest of your life running from it, or you can gear up and do something about it."

Fuming, Dean was a hair's breadth away from throwing punches. He opened his mouth to lambaste the son of a bitch when suddenly, out of nowhere, Sam began writhing on the couch. Everyone froze, watching in alarm as the poor kid whimpered, obviously in the throes of a nightmare.

"Sammy?" Dean crossed the distance between them and hovered over his brother. "Hey, Sam… It's okay…" He reached for Sam's shoulder, but as soon as he made contact, the kid recoiled, waking up in a panic.

"NO! DON'T!" Scared and disoriented, he couldn't distinguish Dean from whatever threat he'd been dreaming about. He would have tumbled off the couch, but Dean grabbed his arms and steadied him.

"It's okay, Sam! It's me! It's me!"

Sam caught his breath, struggling to focus. He peered up at Dean in wide-eyed disbelief. "Where am I?"

"A condo in New York," Dean told him. "You're safe. Everything's gonna be all right, I promise."

Sam visibly relaxed, panting in relief. After helping him sit up, Dean wrapped his arms around him, and they held each other for a good long minute. Dean wanted to apologize; he wanted to beg for Sam's forgiveness and promise never to leave him again, but couldn't think of the proper words. They almost lost each other, and it was all Dean's fault.

Abruptly, Sam pulled back and took stock of his surroundings. "Dean! We have to stop Elizabeth!" Before he could elaborate, he noticed the daunting figure of his father. John stood between him and Cyrus, blocking the boy from Sam's view while wearing a protective, if not overbearing, expression. Sam stiffened, instantly clamming up—he had not forgotten the subject or severity of their most recent argument, and apparently wasn't yet ready to trust the old man.

"Where's Cyrus?"

Dean's heart sank at the turmoil in his brother's voice—the fear mixed with suspicion. Their family wasn't perfect, and Sam frequently tried John's patience, leading to one fight after another, but at the end of the day, they always gave each other the benefit of the doubt. Didn't they? At least, they used to, before the Stynes screwed everything up.

"Sammy…" John sighed in regret, but nevertheless stepped out of the way. Sam's gaze landed on Cyrus, who remained cowering on the floor.

"Oh, thank God…" He scrambled past Dean and scooped the boy up in his arms, holding him tightly—and to the kid's credit, he returned the embrace with genuine devotion. As far as Dean could tell, he wasn't faking, which meant he might actually be as innocent as Sam claimed. Still, what could they have been through together that they'd bond so much, so quickly? Sam never really opened up about his time in Atlanta, and Dean never really pressed him for details. It was too painful to consider.

"Sam," John said after a beat, and thankfully, sparing Cyrus earned him some brownie points. Sam met his father's gaze timidly, but receptively, and when John took a small step toward him, he didn't shy away. "You were saying something about Elizabeth?"

Sam flushed. He set the boy down and nervously scanned the room, seeking refuge he couldn't find. Deeply distraught, he dropped his gaze. "She's in Lily Dale, but I don't how long she's planning to stay there. She has the Book of the Damned, and she's conspiring with Azazel to expedite his plans. She said the spell calls for a ritual performed on the longest night of the year—winter solstice—so we have just under three weeks to stop her, or…" He trailed off. He should have left it with 'stop her,' but by tacking on that ominous 'or,' he inadvertently caught his father's attention.

"Or what, Sam?"

" _Or what, Sam?"_ Those were the exact same words that Jacob uttered on the arch of the viaduct earlier that night. Dean flashed back to that frightening moment—he could still feel Jacob's weight pinning him against the concrete wall—his arm pressed up against his throat. Sam begged for his life—they had to work together—but when Jacob asked about the stakes, Sam faltered. The stakes terrified him—he couldn't bear to speak them out loud—at least not in front of Dean. Instead, he resorted to his telepathy to finish his petition in private. For whatever reason, he was willing to confide in Jacob, but not his own brother. Seriously, what the hell!?

"Sam?" John had an edge to his voice—he didn't like repeating himself.

Sam shook his head. "Don't ask me that."

"You know I have to," John countered, gently but firmly. All the while, Dean silently urged Sam to cooperate. John was their _father_. Despite his gruff nature, he loved his children—he did everything he could for them—and he was better at protecting them than Dean could ever hope to be. "If we're going to challenge Elizabeth, not to mention the demon, we need to understand what we're up against. We have to know what they're planning. You can't keep such vital information to yourself, Sammy. You have to tell us."

Fidgeting, Sam wiped the tears from his eyes. He shook his head. "I can't."

Remarkably, John stayed patient. "Yes you can," he coaxed. "You can trust us, Sammy. Whatever it is, you don't have to be afraid, or ashamed. It's not you, it's the demon, and I want you to believe me, Sam. It's not your fault. None of it. You understand?"

Sam never looked more like a deer in the headlights. His gaze swept from John to Dean, over to Bela, then Bobby, Rufus, and Benny. No wonder he was overwhelmed—he had too big an audience. Dean opened his mouth to recommend they move somewhere private, but wasn't fast enough. Sam closed his eyes and pressed his hand to his head. A heartbeat later, John jerked, startled by some imperceptible occurrence. When he also lifted his hand to his head, Dean knew they were communicating telepathically… without him.

It'd be a lie to say the exclusion didn't hurt. Sam and Dean weren't just brothers; they were best friends. Since when did they keep secrets from each other? What could be so terrible that Sam wouldn't confide in him?

Dean watched carefully for John's reaction to Sam's silent confession. Unfortunately, the old man had one hell of a poker face, and as he listened, he assumed a calm, stoic attitude that gave nothing away. Dean suppressed a bitter growl—his brother was in danger, and he still didn't know why! The suspense was unbearable.

Eventually, Sam staggered backwards, collapsing against the wall. Tears streamed down his face, and the next thing they knew, he was on his knees. Dean's stomach flipped as John rushed to his side, drawing him into his arms. "It's okay," he soothed the boy, mustering all the solace he could offer. "I won't let it happen. I promise."

Dean couldn't remember the last time he heard John speak in such a tone. It must have been… twenty-two years ago.

As John held his youngest child, Cyrus had the good sense to back away. But then he angled toward Dean, and without warning, his tiny hand reached up to anxiously clutch the hunter's. At first, Dean stiffened, not sure what to make of the unwelcome situation. Either Cyrus was an evil, manipulative genius, or he was a poor, harmless kid who never wanted any of this crap. After all, you can't pick your family.

Dean sighed in resignation. Sam loved the boy. That was good enough for him.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	20. Allegiances

_**Author's Note:**_ _Well, it's another short chapter, but I liked the juxtaposition too much to make it longer. Hope you enjoy! :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(New York … Thursday, December 3, 2005)**

The sky was grey and dreary when Dean ventured out onto Bela's covered balcony later that morning. They might finally see some snow! It was certainly cold enough. Bundled up in his dad's leather coat, Dean didn't mind the weather. With thoughts of demons and dark magic heavy on his heart, he much preferred winter over the oppressive heat of summer. Then again, if they suddenly found themselves snowed in, they'd be in a world of trouble.

It was going on eight o'clock—approximately twenty-two hours since Sam's abduction. Dean hardly slept—how could he? The others were still inside, trying to rest before planning their next move, including Sam. Despite hours of unconsciousness, he remained thoroughly exhausted—physically, emotionally, and spiritually drained. Astral projection wasn't easy. But Dean couldn't hope to unwind, even with ibuprofen, so he kept a quiet watch while trying to process this whole ordeal.

First of all, Shax could find them. Son of a bitch! If Shax could track Sam's tattoo, it didn't matter how dangerous Elizabeth might be. They had three weeks, more or less, to deal with her, but Shax could bite them in the ass at any moment. He was a loose cannon, and they had to remove him from the equation as soon as possible. But how?

Bait? Dean shuddered. As a rule, the Winchesters tried to avoid hunting with bait. True, sometimes it was necessary, but whenever the situation demanded it, John's face always darkened with shadows of shame and regret. He made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that bait was for hunters with little regard for life.

Not to mention, Sam remained conflicted about his relationship with Jacob. How could he even consider asking the bastard for help!? If they tried using him as bait in his current condition, it would undoubtedly spell disaster. And it wouldn't be fair—Sam deserved their protection, not their manipulation.

Now, sitting in a teak chair with a plush cushion, Dean frowned up at the heavy clouds, wondering what other choice they had. The vampire was right; they couldn't spend the rest of their lives on the run. Dean maybe, but not Sam. What kind of life would that be for Sam?

Speaking of the vampire, Benny chose that moment to slide open the glass door and join Dean on the balcony. He moved with the remarkable poise of a large predator, but he seemed too relaxed to be on the prowl, so Dean acknowledged him with a terse nod. Benny eased into the adjacent chair and looked him up and down. "I still can't figure how you walked out of that fight in one piece. Jacob should've torn you apart."

Dean grunted. "He almost did. Sam distracted him, and I got lucky."

"Mmm…" Benny leaned back and studied the sky. "I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn earlier. I don't want you to get the wrong impression. I've never met your brother, but—you have my word—I'm on his side, one hundred percent. I'm invested, Dean, and I'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe."

"That right?" Dean managed to curb his contempt, but he couldn't hide his skepticism. "No offense, pal, but why do you even care?"

Benny shot two piercing blue eyes at him. Then he sighed, pulling his hat from his head and running a hand through his short brown hair. "I didn't ask to be a vampire. No one asks. When you're turned, it's chaos. Nothing but hunger and overstimulation. The world's too bright, the smells are too strong, and no matter how hard you try, you can't block out the provocative sound of hearts beating in the distance. It's maddening. You're utterly dependent on your maker's provisions, which often leads to blind devotion. Your nest becomes your family, and your maker, your god. My family was evil, Dean. I knew that, but I also knew I'd be nothing without 'em. Besides, what's the point of virtue in a world as broken as ours? It wasn't till I met _her_ … that I remembered… Humans have a capacity to love that vampires can't comprehend. I glimpsed it in Andrea all those years ago, and I see it in you today. The kind of love that strengthens you to overcome insurmountable odds… That's something the likes of Jacob'll never understand, and it's something the likes of me will never enjoy. Maybe that's why it's so precious to me, cause I know I'm damned. It's torture, yearning for something forever out of reach. But if I can't have it, I sure as hell ain't depriving others. I'll fight for you, Dean. You and your brother, cause it's worth it."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. A philanthropic vampire? Was such a thing possible? Benny spoke without a trace of irony, and according to Pamela, he wasn't acting. Jacob, for all his enhancements, remained human, but he was more of a monster than Benny had ever been. Damn. The world was turning upside down. Of course, it could all be ending soon.

"Are you gonna be able to pick up Jacob's trail again?"

"I reckon. It's mighty difficult to give vampires the slip once they catch your scent. You can throw 'em off, but you can't hide forever."

 _Great,_ Dean thought to himself. By now, Benny had every single one of their scents. Whether he was on their side or not, he would always be able to follow them—anywhere—and Dean wasn't particularly comfortable with that idea.

"I'm just surprised he's hiding at all," Benny went on, heedless of Dean's concern. "He's obsessed, and if he's running with a demon, they should've been able to zap themselves from the viaduct straight to that island, no sweat. They should've beaten us there. But they didn't. They practically let Sam go, and I can't begin to fathom why."

Dean could. If there was any justice in the world, Jacob was injured from his fall—and definitely from the knife to the eye. Shax would use those injuries to justify teleporting somewhere else, far away from Sam and (more importantly) Bela. He wouldn't want Jacob to learn he was consorting with Azazel. If the hunters were lucky, they might be able to use that to their advantage. Maybe they could turn Jacob and Shax against each other.

But in the meantime, they had to be careful—especially Dean. Jacob was bound to be pissed, and if he knew the Styne at all, there would be hell to pay.

 **SPN**

Jacob woke sharply to the sound of chickadees outside a row of double-hung windows. What a nuisance! He found himself in a sparsely decorated room with crown molding, soft-green walls, and a hardwood floor. Damn. Someone had left him resting atop the covers of a firm bed—no pillows—with a short chain shackling his left ankle to the footboard. Who would dare? Shax? Dean? No, Dean would have simply killed him.

Slowly sitting up, Jacob hissed at the pain lingering throughout his body. He had fallen over a hundred feet, and judging by the bandages wrapped around his bare chest, he sustained some minor damage. His enhancements saved his life, and they would hasten his recovery, but they didn't make him invincible. What about his eye? By all rights, he should be half-blind, but he couldn't detect any substantial differences.

Bewildered, Jacob brushed his fingers over his face, checking for abnormalities. Nothing. Apparently, whoever restrained him also had the means to heal him. Why? What were they after? Jacob learned at an early age not to trust anyone outside the family. Friendships and allegiances were all well and good, but they always came with ulterior motives, and as Monroe taught him, the wise not only accepted that—they took advantage of it. Obviously, someone wanted something from Jacob. But who? And what?

Scowling, he yanked back his leg, hoping he might either snap the chain or crack the footboard, but no such luck. He wasn't operating at full strength, and it didn't look like he was going anywhere soon—which naturally meant Dean would reclaim Sam.

It. Wasn't. _FAIR!_

Jacob snarled in frustration. The snarl quickly swelled into a roar. Soon he was shouting at the top of his lungs, and fortunately it didn't take long to attract some attention. A white door swung open and Shax appeared, wearing a sheepish grin. "Jacob! You're awake! That's good. I'm sorry about the chain. I told them it wasn't necessary, but they wanted to proceed with caution, just in case."

"They?" Jacob growled as another man entered behind the demon. He was six feet tall with narrow shoulders and a thin frame. His tailored black suit and tidy flaxen hair conveyed culture and prestige, while his arctic eyes showcased cruelty. Jacob didn't recognize him, and wanted nothing to do with him. Instead, he glowered at Shax. "What's the meaning of this?"

"Don't worry," came his nonchalant reply. "We're all friends here. Jacob, allow me to introduce Commandant Eckhart, leader of the renowned Thule Society."

Just when Jacob thought his wrath was at capacity. The _Thule_. According to Sam, their incompetence enabled Dean to navigate his way to the safe house on the night of the wedding. Ultimately, they were responsible for Sam's escape and the Stynes' humiliation.

"Commandant," Shax continued blithely. "May I present Herman Styne's great-nephew, Jacob? I believe you have much in common."

"Pleasure," Eckhart said with a noticeable German accent. "I was a disciple of your great-uncle's, Mr. Styne, and can honestly say I have nothing but respect for you and your admirable kin."

"And yet you've shackled me to a bed."

Eckhart shrugged apologetically. "Our mutual friend here warned us you might be, shall we say, hostile. I can't blame you for that—I know all too well the bitter taste of defeat. The shackle is simply a safety measure to ensure you don't take your aggression out on the wrong people. I wish to help you, Mr. Styne. That's why I treated your wounds and saved your eye. Accept my partnership, and I'll release you. Refuse, and we shall go our separate ways, but you'll be obliged to remove your own encumbrances."

Jacob fumed, resenting everything about the conceited bastard, from his stupid voice to his smug face. However, he was raised by Monroe, and could almost hear the old man preaching shrewdness over passion. He took a deep, calming breath. "Why help me? I have nothing to give in return." The Winchesters took everything. Everything!

Eckhart frowned. "On the contrary. I have my own grudge against that upstart, Dean Winchester. He and his hunting pal—Bobby, I believe—killed someone very dear to me. I intend for them to suffer, and if that is likewise your goal, we ought to combine our resources."

"What good are your resources? After everything my uncle taught you, you still lost your damn war."

Eckhart scoffed. "All right, if that's how you care to play, we were overwhelmed by everything the Men of Letters and their pet Jews could throw at us. You and your family? Vanquished by some meager legacies." Jacob clenched his fists, but Eckhart wasn't deterred. "Let's not quarrel, Mr. Styne. It serves no purpose to wallow in our failures. The fact is, we both have reputations to restore, and by working together, we can have our justice."

Jacob sighed, reluctantly considering the offer. After all, it wasn't the best time to be scorning potential aid—he couldn't forget Sam's message about Lilibet, Yellow Eyes and Lucifer. If anyone could succeed at permanently separating him from his little brother, it would be the fallen angel, and Jacob would be damned if he allowed that to happen. "You'll have to excuse my temper, sir. I had a rough night. On second thought, perhaps we _can_ come to an understanding."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Take that, Jacob! It's not as much fun when you're the one being restrained, is it!? :-p Somehow, I doubt this experience will change how Jacob might treat Sam in the future. What do you think?_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	21. The Séance

_**Author's Note:**_ _In Lazarus Rising, Bobby and Dean find Sam in Pontiac, Illinois. From there, they go to meet Pamela, who lives "about four hours down the Interstate." That would put her in Missouri, right? If not, oh well. :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Missouri … Sunday, December 6, 2005)**

"There you boys are!" Pamela welcomed the five hunters, their vampire, and Cyrus to her home with open arms—literally. She grabbed Bobby in a bear hug, and followed suit with Sam and Dean. "I was starting to think you weren't going to make it."

After Bela—citing safety concerns—kicked them out of her condo, they began driving west. Unfortunately, they hit bad weather, prompting them to seek shelter and wait for the snow to clear. Sam was naturally shaken up by the delay, and spent every wasted moment pacing around in a cold sweat. Not even the fancy accommodations—which they could afford since Bela paid Sam handsomely for rescuing her—brought him the slightest relief.

"Well," Dean quipped. "We still have a couple weeks for the world to end, so what's the rush?" It was a bad joke—especially in front of Sam—and Dean instantly regretted it. While the three older hunters glared at him, Pamela grimaced and only steadied herself by clutching Sam's jacket.

"You better tone it down, Grumpy," she warned the young man, albeit kindly. "It's hard to function with all that panic." Sam mumbled an apology while supporting her weight—he wasn't used to other psychics absorbing his emotions. Dean, on the other hand, was practically a pro at guarding himself, and Pamela noticed his improvement. While shepherding them all inside, she gave him a quick double take. "That's quite a wall you've built in just a month. I'm impressed." Something about her flattering smile made him blush.

The next ten minutes were spent on introductions. Pamela flirted with Rufus, warned John not to cross her, and offered Benny a disposable coffee cup filled with blood—which she had the decency to procure after taking their call on Thursday afternoon. Then, last but not least, she peered down at Cyrus. "So you're the little tyke everyone's worried about. Come on, let's have a look at you."

Cyrus glanced doubtfully at Sam, but when he nodded his encouragement, the boy stepped forward. Pamela steered him away from the others and squatted so they were eye level. "Don't be afraid. No one's gonna hurt you." She brushed a hand through his hair, contemplating the nature of his thoughts, emotions, and overall energy. During this silent examination, Dean noticed Sam struggling to hide how hurt he was by his family's lack of faith. After all, by trusting Pamela's judgment above his own, weren't they implying he had little credibility? Dean wished he could somehow reassure his brother—they loved him too much for unnecessary risks. If Pamela could determine the quality of Cyrus' character and corroborate Sam's opinion of the boy, why wouldn't they consult her?

Eventually, the woman sighed. "You poor thing. I'm so sorry." She wrapped him in her arms, holding him tightly while meeting John's gaze. "There's nothing enhanced, magical, or remotely supernatural about him. He's just a normal, traumatized kid who needs protection."

John still wasn't convinced. "Even normal, traumatized kids can grow into monsters."

Sam scoffed. "You mean like me?" No one could miss the accusation in his voice—he was bracing himself for an argument. Damn. Why did they always have to argue?

"You're not a monster, Sam," John countered softly.

"Then neither is Cyrus!"

"All right, you two, that's enough!" Bobby sidled between them, ever the referee. He cast John an aggravated look. "We already agreed Pamela's the expert, and if she says the kid's innocent… End. Of. Story." John crossed his arms, but his friend had a point. With the crushing weight of Jacob, Azazel, Elizabeth and Shax hanging over their heads, they couldn't waste time questioning Cyrus. They had to focus on the real threat, and Dean was never more grateful for Bobby's interference.

"So what's next?" Pamela asked, hopping to her feet while Cyrus scurried over to Sam, clutching his hand. "You said something about a séance on the phone?"

"Yeah," Bobby affirmed. "We're hunting a high-level demon who's preparing a ritual for the solstice, which gives us about two weeks to stop him."

"That's not much time," Pamela pointed out. "What's the ritual?"

All eyes turned to John, who apparently decided to keep Sam's secret. "I'll say this much—the spell comes from the Book of the Damned, and it will lead to hell on earth." Pamela blanched, glancing around the room in mounting alarm.

"You're not serious?"

"Oh, we're serious," Rufus assured her. "So smoke 'em if you got 'em."

Benny shook his head. "We just need to figure out a way to kill the demon, that's all."

"Oh, that's all, is it?" Pamela sneered. "You have any idea what it takes to kill a demon? I don't. Exorcizing them is hard enough. And this one's high-level?" Sam opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and looked away. Pamela, however, obviously read his mind and inhaled sharply. A moment later, she erupted. "All right, you listen to me, young man! If I ever hear you consider that again, we're benching you. The last thing we need is Jacob's help!"

Dean groaned. _Damn it, Sammy!_

"But I didn't actually suggest it," Sam exclaimed, flustered and defensive. "I stopped myself, didn't I?"

"I'll give you that, but you've got to do better!" Pamela retorted. "It wasn't just a passing thought, Sam, it was an actual desire. You want Jacob's help, and he's not even here! If he has such influence over you while he's absent, how much worse will it be if he's present?" She stopped short, inspecting Sam with renewed urgency. "Wait… Something's different. Your connection to Jacob…" She cringed. "He reinforced it, didn't he?"

"What?" Dean asked, glancing from Sam to Pamela and back again. His brother was staring at his feet with a broken expression. "What does that mean, he reinforced it?"

"It's not a big deal," Sam whispered. "We have more pressing concerns. The demon…"

"Sammy," John began.

"No! I don't want to talk about it!" Sam shied away, dropping Cyrus' hand to keep from crushing it. "I just want to kill the thing that killed mom!"

Silence. Dean tried to imagine how Jacob might have 'reinforced' his bond with Sam, and the possibilities were sickening. He glanced at Cyrus, but the kid seemed to share his horror, and gave no indication of inside knowledge. Son of a bitch. Even when he was free, Sam remained Jacob's prisoner. When would this nightmare finally be over?

After a beat, John nodded. "Okay. The demon first. Jacob later. Pamela," he glanced at the psychic, "we need a weapon to kill a demon, and the only one I can think of is presumably a fairytale. So we need some guidance, and as it turns out, the boys and I are descended from 'the ultimate authority on all things supernatural.' We need to speak with the Men of Letters."

 **SPN**

 **(Missouri … Sunday, December 6, 2005)**

"But why do I have to go?" Cyrus whimpered as Sam ushered him to the door with Rufus and Bobby. Back in the living room, Pamela was setting up a round table with a black altar cloth, white candles, a small clay cup, a ceremonial blade, and a package of medical dressing—all for the séance—while John, Dean, and Benny watched in fascination. It was almost time, and everyone agreed Cyrus would be safer somewhere else. Everyone, that is, except Cyrus. "I'm a part of this, Sam. It's my fight, too!"

Sam crouched down in front of him. "I know you want to help, but it's too dangerous. This demon…"

"I'm not scared," Cyrus lied. "And I'm almost eight! I'm big enough!"

Rufus chuckled. "Kid, I've seen cocker spaniels bigger than you."

Cyrus pouted, but Sam wasn't swayed. "I didn't start hunting till I was nine, and even then, those hunts were relatively normal. This one's different. The fate of the world's at stake, and it might get very bad, very quickly. I don't want you anywhere near that demon. I want you safe."

"I'm safe with you!"

Sam smiled weakly, glancing at the tattoo on his wrist—practically a demonic tracking device. Cyrus didn't have one yet—as a rule, the Stynes waited for puberty to brand themselves—which meant they could hide him from Shax and Jacob, but only if he left the Winchesters. "I don't think anyone's safe with me. Bobby and Rufus can protect you better than I can. Please, Cyrus. Go with them. Just for a couple weeks."

And after that, then what? Sam quickly pushed the question aside. He couldn't be contemplating the future right now. Every time he did, he either visualized a grotesque devil with giant, bat-like wings, or his brother—Jacob—dragging him back to their home between realities. No matter what happened, he was going to lose, and the only way he could remain calm was by immersing himself in the present. He might not get to stay with John and Dean, but at least for now they were together.

With tears in his eyes, Cyrus gave Sam one last hug; then the hunter stood to embrace Bobby. The others had already said their goodbyes—they weren't comfortable with long, drawn-out, emotional situations—though Sam could sense Dean watching from a distance, regretting their old friend's departure. "You take care of him, okay, Bobby?"

"I took care of you and your brother, didn't I?" Bobby smiled sadly as they released each other. "Don't worry about us, kid. We got the easy job." He couldn't hide his reluctance—he didn't want to leave anymore than Cyrus did—the upcoming fight was too important. But he also knew how readily their enemies would manipulate Sam by exploiting Cyrus, and that would be devastating. Someone had to keep the child from harm, and Sam didn't trust anyone but Bobby.

"See you 'round, Sam!" Rufus said as they shuffled outside. "Don't let those bastards ruin Hanukkah!" They proceeded down the walkway and crammed into Bobby's Chevelle. A few minutes later, they were gone, leaving nothing behind but traces of their deep anxiety, which haunted Sam like phantoms. He might never see them again. How quickly and casually they walked out of his life, perhaps forever—but if it meant saving Cyrus, it was worth the loss. Sam closed the door and returned to the living room, where John, Dean, Pamela and Benny were waiting patiently.

"You did the right thing, Sam," Dean told him as he wearily sank into a chair at the round table. "You know, you're probably the first person who's ever put that kid's needs ahead of his own. It's for the best."

Sam met his gaze briefly, then looked away, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "So, are we gonna do this, or what?"

"Might as well," Pamela said, taking the seat across from him. She motioned for Benny to sit on her left and Dean on her right, with John between him and Sam. Then, she began lighting the candles. "Ideally, to invoke a particular spirit, I require something tied to it—something it touched or owned during its life. However, we don't have that luxury, so we're going to try a blood ritual. If you're descended from the Men of Letters, your blood should be sufficient to summon one." She offered John the ceremonial blade. "Perhaps your father."

"God, I hope not." John snatched the weapon and extended his left hand over the clay cup. As he brought the blade to his palm, Benny narrowed his eyes.

"Should I be here for this?"

"Are you still thirsty?" Pamela asked. "I can refill your drink."

"Might be wise."

Pamela bounded from her chair into the kitchen, eager to accommodate the vampire. When she returned, and when everyone seemed satisfied, she motioned for John to proceed. Without so much as flinching, he sliced his palm and allowed his blood to pour into the cup. Once he applied some medical dressing to the wound, Pamela instructed them to hold hands. Sam was grateful not to be on his father's injured side—he didn't want to accidentally squeeze too hard and hurt him.

"Close your eyes," Pamela advised, and a moment later, she began. "Amate, spiritus obscure, te quaerimus." Even with his eyes closed, Sam perceived the lights flickering around him. The table began rattling, and like wisps of smoke, the energy in the room billowed into the periphery, making space in their circle for the arrival of a mysterious new entity. "Te oramus, nobiscum colloquere, apud nos, circita!"

The flames from the candles flared into blazing pillars—Sam felt the heat on his face even as the temperature began plummeting—and when they finally receded back to normal, he could sense the spirit inhabiting Pamela. No! His eyes snapped open, and he nearly jumped to his feet—every instinct urging him to combat this supernatural possession. His heart was pounding, and Benny peered over at him with a stern expression, silently warning him to control himself. Pamela was a medium—this was their goal.

"What forsaken land is this?" she asked, obviously in a trance. Her voice was low and monotonous—her eyes were dull. "I have seen it once before, long ago. Who calls me back to this ungodly realm?"

Sam glanced at Dean, who returned his gaze in equal discomfort. They were trained to hunt ghosts, not consult them. This went against everything John taught them, and nothing in the world could have prepared them for it—no matter how benevolent the ghost might be.

Of course, their father wasn't fazed. He leaned over the table, regarding Pamela with his customary grit. "My name is John Winchester; I am Henry Winchester's son."

"Henry?" the spirit asked through Pamela's lips. "Yes, Henry. Such a promising child. Did he ever find his way back to you?"

John hesitated, torn between sorrow and resent. "No. I was four years old when he disappeared without explanation, and I still don't know why. As far as I'm concerned, he's dead."

"He is not dead. He is lost deep within the flow of time."

Sam furrowed his brow.

"The hell does that mean?" Dean demanded.

"Nothing," John spoke over the spirit. "It means he can't help us. We're not here for my father. We're here for the demon, Azazel. He's conspiring with a fortune-teller from the house of Frankenstein to break the seals to the cage in hell, using dark magic from the Book of the Damned."

Dean dropped his guard enough for Sam to feel his curiosity about the cage. Surely he could imagine how monstrous a demon must be to deserve such extreme incarceration. As for the spirit, it certainly understood the danger—Pamela whimpered, and profound agitation filled the room.

"There must be a way to stop them," John continued. "Did the Men of Letters leave any weapons or knowledge behind that can help us?"

"The supernatural mother lode," the spirit replied. "But you can't reach it. The doors are locked, and the key is lost deep within the flow of time."

Benny chuckled mirthlessly while John's shoulders sagged. "Throw us a bone, eh chief? Got anything that wasn't lost deep within the flow of time?"

Pamela cast the vampire a blank stare, cocking her head. "You aren't human. Do legacies now fraternize with monsters?"

Benny shrugged. "Desperate times. From what I understand, we're facing the end of the world." Sam flinched. "It'll be curtains for everyone, humans and monsters alike. We're in it together, and we've got nothing to lose."

"Help us," John added.

Pamela sighed. "The Men of Letters were destroyed in a single night… But there were survivors. One in particular has sufficient experience to render aid. I should not recommend him. His stubbornness, arrogance, and irresponsible license make him a threat to everyone around him. He was expelled from our ranks in 1956 following the deaths of two colleagues. You must never trust him. And yet, if you're desperate enough to enlist a vampire, why not the Master of Spells? He was always fond of Henry. Perhaps he'll attend to Henry's children."

John nodded. "Where can we find him?"

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Okay, so I know how much time and energy it takes to leave reviews, but keep in mind how much time and energy it takes me to update regularly. I don_ _'_ _t ask for anything else in return—and I need your comments for morale._

 _ **Thank You Fiery Charizard!**_ _As of this update, you are the only person who reviewed Chapter 20._

 _ **I am craving feedback! Please Review!**_


	22. Divide and Conquer

_**Author's Note:**_ _Wow, thank you all so much for your responses! I can't express how encouraging they are. :-) I wouldn't be writing this without you, and I'm so grateful for your support._

 _Oh, and the episode "Blade Runners" never specifies the location where Magnus lives, so I'm just guessing on this one. No biggie, right?_

 **SPN**

 **(Missouri … Sunday, December 6, 2005)**

Not wanting to impose on Pamela's hospitality—especially since she owned a small house—the Winchesters and Benny secured lodging for the night at a nearby Bed and Breakfast. In the morning, they would make the drive up to the outskirts of LeClaire, Iowa, where their potential ally made his home. Cuthbert Sinclair. Even his name sounded douchey.

As usual, Dean shared a room with Sam, and despite the spacious downstairs common area where guests were invited to enjoy drinks by a spectacular fireplace, they both withdrew to their quiet refuge. (Dean was determined to keep a careful eye on his little brother, and followed him practically everywhere.) While Sam hit the shower, Dean claimed the bed nearest the door and collapsed on the nice mattress—thank God for Bela's money. If he could just clear his mind, he might actually get a decent night's sleep.

But that was the challenge, wasn't it? Dean's thoughts were running rampant, and more often than not, it took all his discipline to keep from breaking things. The never-ending suspense was gnawing at him, and he didn't have a good outlet for his fear or fury. Why did the yellow-eyed demon want Sam? What did his father mean when he said Elizabeth's spell would break the seals to the cage in hell? What cage in hell? And how did that have anything to do with his brother?

More importantly, why didn't his family trust him?

"We need to talk," Dean said the moment Sam emerged from the bathroom. He managed to block his thoughts, but the edge in his voice warned Sam of his turmoil, and the kid froze like a deer in the headlights. Sitting up, Dean propped his elbows on his knees. "When are you gonna tell me your big secret?"

Sam hesitated, clenching his jaw. He trudged over to an armchair by the window, but restlessness kept him on his feet. After a long pause, he asked, "Do I have to?"

As frustrated as Dean was, and as much as he wanted to yell at Sam, he checked himself—he wouldn't get anywhere if he wasn't calm and patient. "I've been working myself into knots over this. You've gotta tell me something! Please, Sam. I'm your brother. I want to help."

Sam shifted his weight, fidgeting nervously. "If we can stop this demon, we can put all this behind us, and forget the whole thing ever happened. If we fail, then it's Game Over, and no one in the world will be able to help me—not you, not dad, not even Jacob." Dean bristled at the mention of his rival. "That's all anyone needs to know. The details are just… too horrible."

"You told dad."

"Come on," Sam complained. "You know what he's like. He didn't give me a choice."

"You told Jacob." No amount of mental discipline could hide Dean's bitterness.

"That's not fair! I was trying to convince him not to kill you."

"Oh, really?" Dean's emotions were getting the best of him, and he bucked off the bed. Sam might be taller, but Dean was still older, and as he crossed the distance between them, he mustered all of his big brother authority. "Let me ask you something. If I had been the one about to kill Jacob, and you wanted to convince me not to, would you have told me then?" Sam didn't have to answer—the guilt was written on his face. "What the hell, Sam? Why would you tell Jacob, and not me?"

Sam stared at the floor. "Look," he said slowly and cautiously. "I know Jacob and I are bound together. I can't deny it, and I'm not even sure I can change it. But I can promise you one thing; I don't care about Jacob's opinion of me. I never have. But Dean, your opinion means everything. I don't know how I would cope if you thought…" He trailed off, and Dean felt his anger melting out him, replaced with regret.

"You think I'd see you differently if I knew the truth? That I'd see you as a monster?" When Sam remained silent, Dean shook his head. "You're not a monster, Sammy. Don't forget, I know you better than anyone—I know you a hell of a lot better than Jacob does. You don't have a monstrous bone in your body, and nothing those bastards are planning will ever change that. You're a good person, and no one can ever tell you otherwise."

Sam forced a smile, but wasn't comforted. "The truth is, I can't imagine anything worse than what they have planned. I would rather die."

Dean's heart skipped a beat. "You don't have to carry all this crap by yourself. Just tell me!"

"No!" Sam was adamant—he could be as stubborn as their father. "I'm sorry, Dean. But I can't."

 **SPN**

 **(Omaha, Nebraska … Sunday, December 6, 2005)**

After hours of driving, Bobby pulled up at an economical—if not cheap—motel where they could spend the night before completing the final leg of their journey in the morning. Since they weren't in a particular hurry, they could afford the layover, and Bobby was desperate for some shut-eye. He procured a double room with a cot where they could all sleep in their own beds, and as they were settling in, he recommended pizza.

Cyrus never saw it coming. While Bobby was scanning a list of local restaurants, Rufus walked up behind him and viciously clubbed him on the back of his head. Cyrus squealed, scrambling out of the way as Bobby hit the ground. Rufus proceeded to kick him with relentless ferocity, repeatedly, until he lost consciousness.

Frozen in fear, Cyrus could barely breathe as Rufus peered over at him with inky black eyes.

"Hey there, little man," the demon teased. "You don't have to be scared. It's me. Shax. I'm here to fetch you for your brother."

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana … Sunday, December 6, 2005)**

Meanwhile, Jacob was haunting his old stomping grounds, hoping to retrieve some family heirlooms that could help with the battle ahead. Most of the Stynes' possessions had been seized by the state following Jacob's arrest in 2004, but he still had a few faithful subjects awaiting his return—such as Sheriff Graham Treadwell—and they were more than willing to offer their support. With the sheriff's help, it didn't take long for Jacob to get his hands on a certain knife and a certain compass.

The knife was an ancient demon-killing knife of the Kurds. According to Jacob's father, it wasn't quite powerful enough to slay old Yellow Eyes, but it wouldn't hurt to bring along, just in case. The compass was a tracking device that would lead Jacob to the Book of the Damned. For years now—decades!—the lost Book had been concealed from the compass with magical protection, but if Lilibet finally brought it out of hiding, Jacob should be able to find it—not to mention her as well. And once he found her, he would put her out of her misery and prove to Sam once and for all that he was a good big brother.

Pleased with his progress, Jacob felt his phone vibrating and didn't hesitate to answer it despite the unknown caller. "Hello? Who's this?"

"Jacob, it's Shax." He didn't recognize the voice—Shax must be wearing a different meat suit. "I know you told us to keep an eye on the Winchesters, but an opportunity came up. The Winchesters sent two of their friends packing with Cyrus, and I thought it best to follow them. I can locate Sam whenever I want to, but the pipsqueak's a different story. I didn't want him disappearing on you, so I possessed the nigger to catch them. And I'm happy to report they're completely at our mercy."

Jacob frowned. "Is Eckhart with you?" He warned Shax not to trust the commandant. Eckhart made it clear how much he wanted Dean to suffer, and they couldn't let him ambush the Winchesters without supervision—Sam might get hurt in the crossfire.

"You worry too much," the demon replied. "Yes, Eckhart and his goons are with me. They're just as interested in Dean's accomplice—this guy named Bobby—as they are in Dean. They jumped at the opportunity to collect him. Everything's still on target, and now that we have some extra leverage, we'll resume our surveillance first thing in the morning. Sound good?"

"Oh yes," Jacob assured him. "Sounds perfect."

 **SPN**

 **(LeClaire, Iowa … Monday, December 7, 2005)**

Shortly after noon on Monday, the Winchesters and Benny arrived in a small, old-fashioned town nestled along the Mississippi River. A thin blanket of snow covered the ground, but the sky was clear, and plenty of people were going about their business with sunny expressions in spite of the numerous flags flying half-staff in honor of Pearl Harbor. Sam couldn't help but wonder what another sixty-four years would bring the country—the world—and whether or not future generations would likewise heal from the crises of today. He hoped so.

Presently, the four of them sat around a corner table in a dingy diner for a quick lunch. It wasn't crowded, but they still took care to keep their voices low as they discussed their next steps—or rather, as John dictated their next steps. His mind was already made up, and for once in their lives, it wasn't Sam protesting.

"Look, I get it," Dean whispered unhappily. "The guy's dangerous and unpredictable, and he probably has a thing against vampires, so it makes sense to leave Benny behind. But why me? The guy lives in a magic fortress. If he turns on you, and I'm stuck on the outside, how am I supposed to help?"

"You wait for reinforcements," John replied, much to his son's displeasure. "I spoke with Rufus on the drive up; they're gonna research entry spells, and if you don't hear from me by tonight, you call them. I'm sorry, Dean. I know this feels like punishment, but that's not what it's about. The spirit warned us not to trust Sinclair. We could be entering a lion's den, and I don't want to jeopardize you both. Fact is, I'd rather go alone, but Sam's abilities could be useful."

Dean scowled. "You mean now that he's psychic, he doesn't need as much protection as I do? That's bull."

"Watch your tone," John snapped. "As I was saying, Sam's abilities are useful for introductions, but if we run into trouble, you are more equipped to mount a rescue, so I need you to hang back with Benny. That's an order."

Between his brother's secrets and his father's orders, Dean was at his wits' end. Sam didn't have to be psychic to recognize his vexation. Still, as always, his filial piety overcame his personal judgment, and he grumbled, "Yes sir."

 **SPN**

An hour later, Sam found himself hiking through the woods, alone with his dad. Not exactly his idea of a good time. Overall, their relationship was better than it used to be, and while John was naturally skilled at guarding his mind—just like Dean—he didn't try to hide his commitment to his family. Sam appreciated the confirmation that, yes, John did love his children, no matter how hard he was on them, but honestly, Sam would much rather be with Dean. His heart wasn't as heavy around Dean.

Eventually, they came to a large, empty clearing that matched the spirit's description of Sinclair's property. From what they'd been told, an invisible fortress stood before them, concealed and secured by powerful warding spells. Sam hesitated, reluctant to leave the safety of the trees—he was all too familiar with warding spells. The Stynes used them in their safe house to trap him inside, and they were oppressive. Sam wasn't eager to risk his freedom again, but what choice did they have? They needed Sinclair's expertise.

"Cuthbert Sinclair!" John shouted, striding boldly into the clearing. Sam followed more timidly, wrapping his arms around his stomach. "My name is John Winchester! I'm Henry Winchester's son! This is my boy, Sam! I know you had a falling out with the Men of Letters, but they're gone now! You're all that's left, and we could really use your help! Please! Let us talk with you!"

Silence. Sam glanced around, shivering as the wind picked up. What if they had the wrong location? What if Sinclair couldn't hear them? What if—?

Suddenly, without warning, the snow billowed up from the ground as a cloud of gray smoke materialized in front of them. A golden light blazed from its core, ringing out with mystical static. Sam stared in wide-eyed astonishment. A portal! It actually worked! They were about to enter the presence of a living, breathing Man of Letters! Well, an expelled Man of Letters, but still… They might finally learn how to combat their enemies!

John glanced back at Sam gravely. "Remember what I told you," he whispered. "Stay calm…"

 _Stay calm and wear your best poker face._

Sam nodded. "Yes sir."

"That a boy." Satisfied, John ventured toward the portal with Sam close behind him. No going back.

They stepped inside.

 **SPN**

The next thing John knew, he was standing in the middle of a long, dimly-lit corridor with a traditional ambiance and classical music playing in the background. The hardwood floor was veiled with burgundy rug runners; the walls were decorated with fancy oak wainscoting, along with several famous paintings in gilded frames. No windows. No signs of life—except for Sam, who was trembling precariously while gripping his head. Great.

Keeping an eye on his surroundings, John reached out to steady his son. "You okay?"

Sam groaned. "Just dizzy." But telepathically, he said, _There's so much magic here, I can taste it. And monsters, too. I've never sensed so many in one place before. I need a moment to tune them out._

"Take your time," John advised, wishing there was more he could do to coach Sam through his new abilities. They were a part of his life now, and if he could master them, they would greatly improve his hunting skills. Naturally, John wanted to help him reach his potential, but didn't know where to begin. He wasn't psychic. How could he coach Sam on something he barely understood? A part of him feared the possibility that strangers like Pamela Barnes, and enemies like Caroline Styne, had more to offer the boy than he did, but he smothered that fear with indignation. He was Sam's father and no one—no one!—could replace him.

Remembering himself, John brushed these troubling thoughts aside to focus on more pressing concerns. Sam claimed they were outnumbered by monsters. The hell? Why would Sinclair have monsters in his home? Where were they? What were they? And how could he prepare for an attack without flaunting Sam's extrasensory perceptions? (If they couldn't trust Sinclair, the less he knew, the better.)

"We should keep moving," Sam eventually said. "Or we could be here awhile."

John didn't like how weak and vulnerable Sam looked, but if he wanted to press on, so be it. John was proud of his perseverance. Still, as they wandered down the corridor, he was mindful of his son's bearing, ready to catch him if he stumbled. Unfortunately, that compromised his vigilance, and as they rounded a corner, they were confronted by two dark-haired vampires—a male and female in matching black tunics with silver embroidery.

Baring their fangs, they launched themselves at the hunters. John easily sidestepped the male, but Sam wasn't as nimble—his reaction time was clearly lagging. The female crashed into him, knocking him backwards while aiming her mouth for his neck.

"SAM!" John quickly drew a machete from a sheath concealed under his jacket—since teaming up with Benny, he never went anywhere without it—but before he could help his son, he had to contend with the rebounding male. It didn't take him long to behead the beast, but in those few short seconds, Sam was floundering. He raised his arms to block his neck, and the female promptly latched her teeth onto his left wrist. He screamed as she bit down.

"HEY!" John bellowed, and the female released Sam to better defend herself, but wasn't fast enough. As Sam shied away, John angrily butchered her. Then, while catching his breath, he glanced up and down the corridor for additional threats. Luckily, the coast was clear. "Sam?"

The kid was on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, clutching his injured wrist while grimacing in pain. Damn it.

"Sammy…" John softened his voice and hastened next to him. "How bad is it? Let me see."

Sam wasn't given time to comply; they were interrupted by slow, steady applause, and John stiffened as a strange man appeared across from them. He stood just shy of six feet, with sleek coffee-colored hair, a fleshy face, a single-breasted suit and a ridiculous bow tie. He should have been around ninety years old, but if John had to guess, he was probably in his mid-forties.

"Bravo!" he said in a cordial voice. "Well done."

"Cuthbert Sinclair?" John asked, rising to square off against this bizarre figure.

The man shuddered playfully. "Please. I haven't gone by that moniker in nearly fifty years. Call me Magnus."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	23. Magnus

**SPN**

 **(LeClaire, Iowa … Monday, December 7, 2005)**

Once John and Sam took off for Sinclair's fortress, Dean and Benny secured a hotel room where the vampire could snooze awhile—he wasn't nearly as wired as the young hunter. Few things upset Dean as much as sitting on the sidelines, especially when his brother was involved, and he found himself pacing in restless anxiety. To make things worse, in anticipation of the winter, the hotel had the heat on, and guests weren't able to adjust the temperature. Dean began to sweat.

"You've gotta be freaking kidding me," he fumed, reaching for the phone on the bedside table. Benny watched in mild impatience as Dean made a call to the front desk. He tried asking nicely for some air conditioning—he really did—but in less than a minute, he was practically yelling at the clerk. "Whatever happened to customer service! It's freaking ninety degrees in here! Listen, pal, I've been in my fair share of hotels, so I can safely say you're full of crap!"

Benny made a face and tapped the phone's switch hook, ending the call. "Why don't you go for a walk, chief? The fresh air will help with the cabin fever."

He had a point. Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, okay." Regardless of the snow outside, he left his dad's coat with his other belongings—he didn't think he would need it—and while Benny settled back down on the bed, covering his face with his hat, Dean embarked from the room. He passed through a side door to avoid the lobby and strolled across the parking lot.

While the hotel wasn't far from the town's historic district, Dean was never much of a tourist and didn't care for crowds. Instead, he aimed for a series of empty streets and tried to organize his thoughts. Sam would be okay; he was with their dad, and no one—not even Dean—could protect the kid better than their old man. Right? It was pointless to worry.

After fifteen minutes, Dean came to the edge of a residential neighborhood and stopped short. How tightly-knit was this community? Would he look suspicious walking around here? Maybe he should turn back. He didn't want to alarm anyone, and at least he could justify wandering through the historic district.

Without warning, something whistled through the air, striking Dean sharply in the neck. He grunted, seizing up as pain radiated down his body. The hell? Whatever it was remained lodged in place, so he plucked it off with trembling hands. It looked like a… a dart? Dean's vision swam. Why would someone shoot a dart at him? His body grew languid. Son of a…

He collapsed, and it was all he could do to keep his head from hitting the ground. "Help…" His voice was barely a whimper.

Shoes were crunching across the snow, approaching swiftly. He had to get up, had to fight, had to…

But he couldn't move.

The last thing he recalled were voices whispering in German. Then everything went dark.

 **SPN**

"Magnus?" John eyed the man critically, taking stock of his pleasant, friendly demeanor. Sam was on the floor, applying pressure to a bloody wrist with his own bare hand, and this asshole had the nerve to smile at them? John growled. "Is this how you greet all your visitors?"

Magnus sighed, regarding Sam in mild concern. "You know, you're absolutely right. In my line of work, it's always necessary to familiarize oneself with how strangers operate. You might be Henry's child, Mr. Winchester, but you certainly don't resemble him, and I wanted to see what you're made of. I meant no harm, and if you'll allow me, I can repair your boy's wrist, good as new."

John hesitated, but as much as he wanted to punch this bastard in the face, they were depending on him for help, and if possible, they had to avoid burning bridges. "I'm only going to say this once," he warned Magnus. "If you ever threaten my son again, I won't be as forgiving."

"Fair enough," Magnus assured him, and John stepped out of the way. Sam stiffened, shaking his head nervously as the spell-caster knelt in front of him. "It's all right, Sam. This won't hurt a bit." He motioned for the injured wrist, but Sam flushed, shaking his head in obvious distress. Folding his arms, he covered up the wound with the same look of inferiority that he sometimes wore as a teenager struggling to live up to his brother's unbeatable reputation. Magnus frowned, not sure what to make of his reluctance.

"Sam," John exhorted. "You can't shrug off a vampire bite. Let him heal you."

"Dad…" Sam was on the verge of arguing, but Magnus took John's intercession as permission to proceed. With the flick of his wrist, he magically extracted the guarded arm and gripped it, gently but firmly, in his dexterous hands. Sam caught his breath, but no matter how upset he was, John wouldn't tolerate his embarrassment getting in the way of his health. This was for the best.

Magnus pushed Sam's sleeve up and muttered a brief incantation over the wound. Almost instantly, the blood disappeared and the flesh repaired itself, revealing the source of Sam's agitation. His tattoo. The Stynes' family crest. John could have kicked himself. No wonder!

"Huh." Magnus examined the blemish in bewilderment. "I thought you said you're Winchesters."

"We are," John stoically replied. He gestured for the man to move so he could help Sam to his feet. If only he could remind the kid to keep his wits about him.

"But that doesn't make any sense," Magnus protested as they all stood up. "If you're Winchesters, then you're legacies, and the Stynes are well-known for sacrificing legacies. Do you realize how much a tattoo like that costs? Those scumbags wouldn't waste their resources on someone they intend to slaughter, would they?"

John grunted. "Not at first, but then I ganked nine, maybe ten, of their relatives, and they wanted compensation. They figured they could avenge themselves by harassing my son." His voice darkened. "Their mistake." Sam averted his eyes while Magnus considered them with a furrowed brow.

"Amazing," he finally said. "Henry Winchester's little boy, all grown up, and killing bad guys. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were hunters."

John nodded. "That's exactly what we are."

"What!?" At first, Magnus' eyes widened in disbelief, but then he grinned in open amusement. "No kidding. Hunters? Whoa." He chuckled, tossing his head as he processed this revelation. "Legacies out hunting monsters. Damn. You know, back in the day, that wouldn't have been tolerated. Those old stiffs were a bunch of short-sighted, close-minded, elite snobs. If they found out you were hunting… Well… there would have been some serious repercussions."

"You don't say." John couldn't care less, and didn't bother to hide his indifference. "Look, no offense, but we didn't come here for small talk. We came cause this whole affair with the Stynes has brought an imminent catastrophe to our attention, and we need to prevent it. We're hoping you can help."

Magnus nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course. I'd be honored. But why don't we take this conversation somewhere more comfortable? Are you thirsty? I have some excellent whiskey, if I do say so myself." He started down the corridor, signaling for them to follow, but first, John caught Sam's elbow.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a whisper. Sam met his gaze somberly.

 _I don't like it here,_ he telepathically replied. _And I don't like him. I mean, I wouldn't necessarily call him evil, and he's not lying to us. He doesn't want to hurt us. But he's creepy, dad. What kind of person keeps monsters in his home?_

Good question. John could appreciate his son's misgivings and peered after Magnus suspiciously. They had come too far to turn back now, but God, this had better be worth it.

Sensing their reservations, Magnus stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "Are you gentlemen coming or not?"

"On our way," John assured him, clapping Sam on the back. They started after their host, who seemed eager to settle their nerves while guiding them through his stately mansion.

"You don't have to be so apprehensive around me, fellas. Granted, I can imagine whoever or whatever led you to me had some nasty things to say, but come on. That's just one side of the story, and it was such a long time ago. I'm a completely different man now—hence the name change."

"Of course you are," John agreed with a trace of irony. "That's why you compelled two vampires to ambush us."

Magnus wasn't deterred. "You should know, I was prepared to intervene if the situation got out of hand. But, as it turns out, you didn't need my help, did you? I have to say, I'm impressed. Unlike my old colleagues, I've always had the greatest respect for hunters, and you, sir—you're good. Clearly the best of the best."

John scoffed. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

Before Magnus could respond, Sam asked, "Why do you have vampires here anyway?"

"Oh, he speaks!" the man playfully teased, which made Sam grimace. "Call it a childhood ambition. I always wanted to run a zoo, but I was a legacy, and in those days, legacies weren't given much freedom to choose their own careers. It was my duty to follow in my father's footsteps as a Man of Letters, and I honestly tried to make the most of it. But you know, I was always different from the others. Eccentric, they called me. I had so many ideas—proposed so many projects—but they were all rejected, one by one. I mean, the boys were basically glorified librarians, obsessed with research, and cataloging, and all that jazz. I figured the best way to study the supernatural is through observation, and we could make unprecedented progress if we gathered some creatures in controlled environments to evaluate their behavior. Libraries, museums, zoos… They all share the same fundamental values, right? Knowledge and education. I never understood their disdain for such a concept, and when they finally died out in '58, I took the liberty of fulfilling my lifelong dreams."

"So we're in a zoo?" Sam asked, and John didn't blame him for the tremor in his voice. This place was a time bomb. Supernatural monsters weren't like normal animals; they were evil, powerful, and unforgiving. Trying to contain them in a 'zoo' would inevitably spell disaster. It was only a matter of time.

"Oh, Sam," Magnus said, unfazed. "You are in the midst of the greatest collection of supernatural rarities and antiquities on the planet."

They came to a formal drawing room with an impressive assortment of relics from all around the world. Enormous paintings, racks of swords, decorative shields, helmets, a suit of armor, animalistic statues made of gold, a crystal skull and a… Was that a unicorn skull? Plenty of good discussion pieces, but John found his attention drawn to a round end table showcasing a variety of bowls with colorful powders. Magnus was a Master of Spells, and he kept the tools of his trade handy.

Two load-bearing pillars towered on either side of the massive chamber, matching the marble mantel of a grand fireplace, which beckoned them toward a regal sitting area. An antique coffee table stood between a Chesterfield sofa and a corresponding chair, all upon an oversized Oriental rug. Magnus encouraged them to "take a load off" while he ambled over to a mahogany sideboard where he kept his liquor.

"So tell me about this imminent catastrophe you're so desperate to prevent," he said, and while his back was turned, Sam sank onto the sofa, massaging his temples. He must still be reeling from the psychic noise of countless monsters, which explained how a vampire got the best of him—he was distracted. Poor kid. John sat at his side and tapped his leg when he expected Magnus to face them again. Sam immediately dropped his arms and assumed a calm expression.

"The Stynes are working with a yellow-eyed demon named Azazel," John began as Magnus placed a tray with three drinks on the coffee table. Claiming one for himself, he reclined on the chair across from them and listened carefully as John elaborated. "They have the Book of the Damned, and they intend to use it on the solstice to break the seals to the cage in hell, releasing Lucifer. It'll be the end of the world."

"Really?" Magnus asked, more intrigued than alarmed. "Now that is fascinating." He took a sip of his whiskey, regarding them with such ardor that Sam shrank in on himself. "I hate to say it, but I saw this coming ages ago. I warned 'em. I always said, we had the potential—the responsibility—to rid our land of the evil infesting it. But did they listen? No, of course not."

"Spare us your self-congratulation," John snapped. "I'm not interested in the Men of Letters. They're dead, and your petty contempt is only wasting my time."

Sam flinched at his father's outburst, but Magnus smiled. "My apologies. So how can I be of assistance?"

John leaned forward. "We are looking for a weapon powerful enough to kill the yellow-eyed demon, and a spell that can nullify the Stynes' ritual," he explained. "I wouldn't mind destroying the Book of the Damned while we're at it."

"Ooh!" Magnus made a wry face and shook his head. "No, you mustn't do that. Destroy the Book?" The very thought seemed to appall him. "Mind you, I highly doubt you could—it's kind of… eternal. Your best bet would be to safeguard it—and I can help with that. Why don't you swing by after your hunt and drop it off? I'll bury it somewhere deep within my vault where no one can ever abuse it—I promise."

John saw right through him; he was obviously fishing for more treasures. But in the grand scheme of things, if it meant killing Yellow Eyes and protecting Sam, it was a fair price. "I think we can arrange that. But what about the demon?"

"Azazel?" Magnus scoffed. "Oh yeah, I've got a weapon. What do you gentlemen know about angel blades?"

John and Sam traded looks.

"Let me guess," Magnus said. "You've never even heard of 'em. It's all right. Nothing to be ashamed of. Angels are very distant, callous creatures, and frankly, I don't blame hunters for dismissing them as bedtime stories. When's the last time an angel ever intervened for the sake of a human? Try the Dark Ages."

Sam clenched his fists—John was always (at least partially) aware of the kid's yearning for a higher power, thanks to Pastor Jim's influence. It must be hard for him to listen to someone disparaging the heavenly host.

"Anyway," Magnus went on. "Most people don't realize angels are primarily warriors. They're not choir singers. They serve to smite evil. Don't ask me why they've grown so negligent lately, but the truth is, they pack a mean punch. And they carry weapons. Swords, daggers, angel blades. If you want to kill a demon, that'll do the trick."

"And you just so happen to have one of these angel blades lying around that we can borrow?" John asked.

"Sure do," Magnus said with a wink. "But it's under lock and key—of the magical variety. I'll need a few hours to retrieve it for you."

John took a deep breath, checking his impatience. After all, this was really the best-case scenario. But first, he required corroboration, so he shot Sam a questioning look. When the kid nodded, hardly able to contain his excitement, John said, "Thank you, Magnus. You're really saving our asses here."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "You bring me that spell book and we'll call it even." His gaze drifted from the father to the son, and no one could mistake the favor in his eyes. "Did I ever mention how fond I was of Henry? I had the pleasure of mentoring him for several years. He was a bright kid. Never gave up on me." He sighed in regret before springing to his feet. "Tell you what. In honor of a dear friend, I'll walk the extra mile."

He proceeded to sail around the room, carefully selecting a scroll, clay basin, and crystal decanter from his collection. When he returned to the sitting area, he placed each item on the coffee table. As he unstoppered the decanter, he said, "This potion is used for purification." He poured some kind of magical concoction into the clay basin. "And this scroll records an ancient exorcism." He gestured for John to pick up the perfectly preserved papyrus. "Sam, if you would soak your wrist in the potion while your dad performs the exorcism, you can finally cleanse yourself of the demonic soot contaminating your tattoo."

Sam's jaw dropped.

"Are you serious?" John asked, not sure whether to believe it.

Magnus grinned. "They don't call me Master of Spells for nothing. This should keep you busy while I'm fetching the angel blade. Sam, by the time you leave my fortress, that tattoo will no longer be permanent. Now what do you think of that?"

Sam couldn't find the words. "I… I don't know what to say."

"Don't mention it. You remind me very much of your grandfather, and it's a real privilege lending you my aid."

 **SPN**

"You stepped out of line, Eckhart!"

Gradually, Dean woke to the sound of angry voices.

"I will not apologize for claiming what's rightfully mine."

His head was listing to the side—not comfortable. To make things worse, his stomach was roiling, and he wanted to hurl. What the hell happened? Where was he?

"You were told to wait!"

Rufus?

Holding back a groan, Dean opened his eyes. He found himself in a large, dimly-lit facility with a concrete floor, broken clerestory windows, and pigeons in the steel rafters. It looked suspiciously like an abandoned warehouse. Some distance away, five men were huddled together in the midst of a heated debate, and sure enough, Rufus stood with them.

"I do not answer to Jacob," protested a man with a German accent. Dean couldn't help but think of Nazi necromancers. "I saw an opportunity to bag the boy without risking the brother, so I took it. What more do you want from me?"

"Cooperation!" Rufus spat. "We're supposed to be a team."

What. The. Hell?

As Dean grew more conscious of his predicament, he felt a tight constriction that spanned all the way around his head, covering his mouth. A gag—duct tape, judging by the way his upper limbs were mummified to the armrests of an office chair. Crap. When he instinctively tried to move his legs, he quickly learned two things. One, his ankles were fastened to the base of the chair. Two, the chair had wheels. He lacked the momentum to make it roll anywhere, but as he squirmed, the damn thing swiveled, which certainly didn't help his stomach. Son of a bitch.

Frantic, Dean gave his surroundings a second look. This time, he caught sight of a pint-sized kid cowering on the floor by a steel column. Cyrus? If Cyrus and Rufus were both here, then where was…?

Bobby.

Several yards to Dean's left, the gruff old hunter was taped to another chair in a similar fashion. They quickly made eye contact, and from Bobby's expression, Dean knew they were screwed.

"He's awake," someone growled.

Dean whipped his head around to glare at his captors with all the defiance he could muster. They approached with unbridled malice.

"Hello, Mr. Winchester," the obvious leader said. "I am Commandant Eckhart of the Thule Society."

Yep, Dean thought to himself. Nazi necromancers.

"I believe you knew a friend of mine," Eckhart continued. "His name was Torvald. You and your colleague over there killed him."

Dean shrugged indifferently, which earned him a slap across the face.

"Careful!" Rufus barked. "Remember what I said, Eckhart. We need them alive to manipulate Sam."

No… Dean grunted, but the gag smothered his angry expletives.

Eckhart smirked. "I assure you, Shax, I have no intention of killing him quickly."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:** Uh-oh! Things aren't looking good for Dean! :-p _

_Please, please, please review and tell me what you think of Magnus!_


	24. Acquisitions

**SPN**

 **(LeClaire, Iowa … Monday, December 7, 2005)**

It was after dark when Benny awoke from his nap; the clock read 9:24 p.m. and a cursory glance around the unlit room assured him he was alone. Dean never returned from his walk. The vampire could understand why John and Sam might still be away—they were negotiating a dangerous deal with a disgraced Man of Letters. Tricky business. It could take awhile. But Dean's absence concerned him. From what Benny knew of the young hunter, he wasn't the kind of man who went out for a night on the town while his little brother was potentially at risk. He should have been back by now.

Striding over to the window, Benny peered out into the parking lot. Sure enough, he could see the Impala right where Dean left it, beneath a lamp post. Not a good sign. All vampires were prone to trust their instincts, much like animals, and after his stint in Purgatory, Benny had sharper instincts than most. Something wasn't right, and he'd do well to investigate.

Stocking up on weapons, Benny put his phone on vibrate and ventured out of the hotel. It didn't take long to catch Dean's scent, and he followed it with the single-minded focus of a predator. The more ground he covered, the more anxious he became. Dean was in danger—he could feel it in his bones.

Eventually, to the north of the town, he happened upon an old warehouse that once serviced a local quarry. According to the "Keep Out" signs, it now stood condemned, but through the clerestory windows, Benny observed faint traces of flickering light. So much for being abandoned. He could smell the people inside. Dean, along with Bobby, Rufus, Cyrus, and a handful of others. What the hell were they all doing here?

Taking advantage of the shadows, Benny climbed a tree near the wall of the building and made his perch beside a broken window where he could spy on the occupants. What he found was every bit as bad as he feared.

 **SPN**

After a few false starts—it took awhile for John to make sense of the script on the ancient scroll—the two hunters slowly managed to perform the exorcism-purification spell as Magnus instructed. Sam had to give his father credit—the old man's linguistic skills were impressive, much like Bobby's. He made it a point not to flaunt them, being more comfortable as a fighter than a scholar, but if his long obsession with Mary's killer taught him anything, it was how limited his research would be if he stuck with English. He required a wider pool of information, and so, recognizing a flaw in himself, John was quick to correct it, which made him one of the most competent hunters alive today. Perhaps he would have flourished under the Men of Letters after all.

It was hard to say how long Sam left his wrist soaking in the magic potion, but as he watched, the black soot from the tattoo seeped out of his flesh, causing the liquid to effervesce. It didn't hurt, as he half-expected. Rather, it tingled pleasantly, and his shoulders relaxed as the cool sensation spread from his arm throughout his body. For the first time in over a year—since the Stynes branded him—he felt a glimmer of hope that maybe his freedom wasn't lost. If he could wash away his tattoo, maybe he could wash away his bond with Jacob. Get his life back. Heal. Move on.

When he finally pulled his wrist from the potion, his family crest was nothing more than faded ink—removable with laser treatment. Sam felt so relieved, so refreshed, that tears filled his eyes. John sat next to him, and before Sam knew it, they were sharing a deep, silent embrace.

Naturally, Magnus chose that moment to return, brandishing a triple-edged, silvery dagger. He stopped short, smiling sheepishly as John and Sam separated. "Oh! I'm sorry. Didn't mean to intrude." Despite his overall charm and magnanimity, something about him still rubbed Sam the wrong way. He couldn't put his finger on it—sure, the man was arrogant and reckless, but the good will he felt for the Winchesters was genuine (at least as far as Sam could tell). The whole zoo thing might be troubling, but then again, why? What made trapping monsters so much worse than ganking monsters? Aside from the testimony of one spirit, Sam had no reason to fear Magnus, and considering his help, it was irrational to remain suspicious.

Swallowing his apprehension, Sam rose to greet his benefactor. "Magnus, I don't know how to thank you."

"Like I said, don't mention it." The man was beaming in delight. He crossed the rest of the distance between them and clapped his free hand on Sam's shoulder while holding the dagger out to John. "The angel blade, as requested, sir."

John took it reverently, marveling at its sheer beauty—Sam sensed his admiration. Never before had he seen such a perfect weapon, so light, so balanced, so sharp, so lethal. No one could deny its origin—it seemed to radiate with divine, holy power. If Sam could only touch it, he might have a channel through which to behold its rightful owner. An angel. Perhaps God. The very thought filled Sam with hunger… but also dread. Tattoo or no tattoo, he was still corrupted. What if God despised him? Consequently, when John offered him a chance to hold the flawless weapon, Sam shook his head, hiding his hands in his pockets.

"How did you come by it?" he asked Magnus, as if the question could divert their attention away from his shame, and happily, despite his obvious curiosity, the man was decent enough to mind his own business.

"Now, Sam," he said in a playful voice. "You don't expect me to divulge the secrets of my trade, do you? Besides, the story is much too long, and you gentlemen are in a hurry. Some other time, perhaps?"

After marking his son's turmoil, John frowned at Magnus. "You've already done so much for us, I hate to ask for anything else, but what about the Stynes' ritual? Do you know any counter spells that might nullify their magic?"

"Well…" Magnus sighed, shaking his head. "Here's the problem. You're talking about the Book of the Damned, the most powerful spell book in all of history. To rival that kind of fire power, you'll need considerable magic of your own, and I should tell you upfront, the price will be severe. No matter how you swing it, blood will be shed. Innocent blood."

Sam glanced nervously at his father, who shared his discomfort.

Magnus shrugged. "To be honest, I can't guarantee my magic's a match for the Book's. I can read up on our options, but it's a long shot, and even then, I don't know how much time I'll need to prepare whatever spell I come up with. If you want my advice, forget the magic. Focus on the hunt. All you have to do is kill your enemies before the solstice."

John nodded. "Then we don't have a minute to spare."

"Here." Magnus produced a small card from his coat pocket. "My number. Call me in a few days with your progress. We'll discuss my research and re-evaluate."

"Thank you," John said.

"My pleasure." Magnus smiled in a way that Sam could only describe as sleazy. "Now then, shall I show you gentlemen out?"

"Please," John replied.

Sam suddenly had a terrible, sinking feeling. He grabbed his father's arm, but wasn't fast enough.

"Dormite."

As soon as the word passed Magnus' lips, a rush of panic swept through Sam. He pictured his mother—no—not his mother—Caroline.

Then, a heartbeat later, he and John both crumbled to the floor, overcome by a deep, sound sleep. Towering above them, Magnus clucked his tongue.

"What a day, gentlemen. What a day."

 **SPN**

Shax never thought it possible—a part of him just died. He doubled over, cursing to himself as nausea hit like a tidal wave. Soon, he was vomiting on the cement, and the Nazis all turned to stare at him in disgust.

"Shax!" Eckhart scowled. "What's the matter with you?" He was in the middle of breaking Dean's fingers, and did not appreciate the interruption. As their helpless captives screamed through their gags and struggled against their bonds, Shax trembled in similar desperation. His connection to Sam was severed. He could no longer sense the boy's location. Damn it all to hell! Jacob would be furious.

Collecting himself, Shax somehow managed to stand. "I need to make a phone call." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the warehouse, dreading his friend's inevitable wrath.

 **SPN**

Sam moaned, waking slowly. His head was throbbing, and his muscles were drained of all energy. He didn't know where he was, and a part of him didn't care. The crushing weight of disillusionment was simply too much. What made him think he could ever be free? He was born cursed, and he would die cursed; there was no escaping that.

Scared and miserable, Sam forced himself to take in his surroundings. He was in a hexagonal cage with a Gothic dome and decorative flourishes along the iron bars. Suspended from the ceiling of Magnus' drawing room, perhaps five feet above the ground, his enclosure revolved in small, leisurely circles, like a raft floating on gentle water. No sign of his dad, or Magnus, or anyone. He was alone. And if that wasn't ominous enough, he quickly realized he was barefoot, dressed in brown trousers and a loose-fitting black tunic with silver embroidery, exactly like the garments worn by those two captive vampires. Did that mean what he thought it meant? Please, God, no…

As the full implications of this nightmare occurred to him, Sam struggled to breathe. "Magnus!" he shouted, clambering to the side of the cage, which only made it sway and spin faster. His stomach flipped, and he clenched his eyes shut to forestall a wave of dizziness. "Magnus, I know you can hear me! Why are you doing this!? Let me go!"

It didn't take long for the slimy bastard to appear in the threshold of the drawing room. Sam struggled to look him in the eye—feigning fury—as the cage twirled precariously. This had to be the most ridiculous, humiliating experience of his entire life, and naturally, Magnus found it amusing.

"There's my sweet, little bird," he teased, sauntering over to his whiskey table. He poured himself a drink and eased onto his chair, where he had the perfect vantage point to admire his latest acquisition—Sam cringed as the word popped in his head. Unable to miss his agitation, Magnus sighed. "Listen, sport. If it means anything, I'm sorry it had to be you. Truly. I have nothing but respect for your grandfather, and I know he wouldn't approve. But I'm a collector, and this opportunity was just too great to pass up."

Sam tried not to move, hoping the cage might start to settle. "Where's my dad?"

"Oh, he's fine," Magnus assured him. "I let him go. Had no reason not to. I mean, I know what you're thinking. John's a hunter, and clearly a devoted father. He's bound to come back and save you, am I right?" He smirked while Sam fumed. "Sorry, kid. Fact is, I traded one of my very best shape shifters to get my hands on you, and trust me, your dad will never be the wiser."

"Then you don't know him very well," Sam replied.

"We'll see."

They stared at each other, and it was all Sam could do not to panic. He was trapped in a freaking bird cage within a magical fortress that contained a supernatural zoo. Magnus was skilled at managing a wide variety of a monsters, and Sam—psychic or not—was just a human. Keeping him would be no trouble for the damn Master of Spells. How the hell was he going to get out of this? "You're making a mistake. There's nothing special about me. I'm not worth kidnapping."

Magnus rolled his eyes. "Please. Did you really expect me to believe that story about the Stynes stamping you with their family crest for something as trivial as vengeance when legacies are far more valuable to them as life insurance? I was a legacy once; I know the stories. The Stynes consider themselves expendable. If one goes down, they have an army of replacements. They're too ambitious to waste their time on vengeance."

Sam shook his head. "They're not as indifferent as you think."

"And they're not stupid," Magnus countered. "Using the Book of the Damned to bust open the Cage could destroy them. They need their life insurance now more than ever! So it stands to reason that if they had an occasion to brand you, then they had an occasion to sacrifice you, but chose not to. And I have to wonder, why? Why would they fixate on you, especially when they're fixating on Lucifer? What's the connection?"

Sam felt his bravado failing.

Magnus grinned. "Lucifer can't walk the earth without his Vessel, and I'm betting you're the one."

"No!" Sam spoke too quickly, too desperately, and Magnus chuckled.

"Oh, Sam, Sam, Sam… You have a terrible poker face."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author**_ _ **'s Note:**_ _At some point, someone's bound to complain about how I'm always putting Sam in these situations, but what can I say? It's so much fun! (There's something wrong with me.) A special thanks to_ _ **brihun2388**_ _for inspiring the bird cage. I really think it fits this situation, for reasons I'll explain in the next chapter. You're the best!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	25. Reinforcements

**SPN**

 **(LeClaire, Iowa … Tuesday, December 8, 2005)**

"Dad? … Dad! … Wake up!"

As soon as John registered Sam's voice—distant, nebulous, frantic—he snapped his eyes open and raised his guard, banishing his drowsiness. What happened? Where was he? "Sam?"

"I'm right here," his son assured him. They were in the clearing outside the invisible fortress; Sam was kneeling over John, who was sprawled out on the snow with the angel blade clutched tightly in his hand. Despite the overcast night sky, they both had plenty of visibility, thanks to a nearby camping lantern—apparently, Magnus didn't mind dumping them out in the cold, but heaven forbid he leave them in the dark. Bastard.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, helping him sit up. John nodded, giving the kid a once-over to evaluate his own condition. Sam was a tough young hunter, but John would always see him as a child—especially after this whole ordeal with the Stynes. Fortunately, he seemed unscathed for now—just a little shaken. His face was flushed, his unruly bangs were everywhere, and to top it all off, he was shivering. How could someone so gentle and vulnerable be the devil's chosen one? It didn't make any sense.

But at least now they had a weapon. They could finally take the fight to Azazel and stop this catastrophe from escalating. Mary would be avenged, and Sam would be safe—about time, too. Speaking of time, how much did they lose?

"How long was I out?" John asked, climbing to his feet. Sam rose with him, shaking his head.

"No idea—I was unconscious too—woke right before you did. Can you check your phone?"

John fished the small device out of his pocket, reminding himself to replace Sam's as soon as possible—damn Jacob for stealing it. Flipping open the screen, he was promptly notified of three unread texts from Benny. It was 2:20 a.m., and the vampire had messaged him hours ago. Quickly skimming the report, John's heart stopped, and he met Sam's gaze in a panic.

"We have to go. Now!"

 **SPN**

Back in the spell-caster's drawing room, Sam frantically shuffled around his cage, searching for weak spots. As far as he could tell, the damn thing didn't have a door or hinges, and if he didn't know any better, he'd think it was built around him and welded shut. Then again, magic. God, he hated magic.

At least it was more comfortable than Jacob's dog crate. Seven feet tall and five-and-a-half feet in diameter, the cage was large enough for him to stand at full height and lie down, curled up. But standing was laborious. Every time he moved, the cage twirled and swayed, making him dizzy and nauseous. What he wouldn't give to have both feet back on stable ground.

Meanwhile, Magnus observed him from his chair in blatant satisfaction. Sam did everything he could to ignore the son of a bitch, but he was obviously a prized trophy, and such attention made him squirm. When would people figure out he had a life of his own? He wasn't a tool, or an object, or a slave, or whatever. He was a human being, and he shouldn't be treated this way. Frustrated, Sam turned on Magnus with all the indignation he could muster. "Let me out! Or I swear to God…"

"You'll what?" Magnus taunted with a twinkle in his eye. "What are you going to do, Sam? You're not the first of my pets to resist assimilation, and you won't be the last. I've got you, and you're not going anywhere. Now then…" He leaned back and propped his elbow on the armrest, holding up his hand. "Bear with me as I decide the best place to display you." He began twirling his index finger, and the chain that fastened the cage to the ceiling began wrenching upwards.

Sam braced himself as Magnus magically hoisted his prison up higher and higher off the ground. He clenched his eyes shut as the cage danced, but couldn't block out the spinning sensation that wreaked havoc on his nerves.

A pause. Sam listened stiffly as Magnus considered his new elevation. "Hmm… You know, the cage looks gorgeous up there, but it's hard to see you… Too much of an angle… Maybe I should set you closer to the wall." He flicked his wrist, and the chain tugged the cage sideways. Sam's entire world lurched, and he moaned miserably as he lost his balance.

Magnus oohed and aahed, but ultimately shook his head. "No, now you're just too far away." He continued shifting the cage around the room—up, down, left, right, up, down, here, there—until vertigo overwhelmed his captive.

"Magnus, stop! Please!" Sam hated the whimper in his voice. God, he was pathetic. Magnus reeled him back to his starting position, smiling triumphantly.

"What's wrong, little birdie? Don't like your cage?" He chuckled while Sam leaned against the bars, thoroughly exhausted. "Now, if you behave yourself, I might be inclined to let you out—on occasion. But this is your home now, Sam. I always immerse my live acquisitions in habitats that complement their breeds. You're Lucifer's Vessel, and Lucifer happens to occupy a cage, so there you go. It's good symmetry, and I trust you'll adapt."

Sam glared at him. "I hate you."

Magnus sighed, tossing up his arms. "Come on, kid! This doesn't have to be a bad thing. I'm willing to take you under my wing. I can protect you from your enemies—your _real_ enemies—I can teach you everything I know—all my secrets—even the way of the Letters. We can be friends. I have to be honest with you; it has gotten lonely here over the years."

Sam curled his lip in disgust. "You're worse than the Stynes. At least they own up to their depravity."

"You know, you should be thanking me," Magnus rebutted. "I got that demon soot off your wrist, didn't I? And I gave your dad an authentic angel blade when, really, I'd like nothing more than to see him fail. Doesn't that make me generous?"

The outrageous remark chilled Sam to the bones. "Wait… Why, for the love of God, would you want to see him fail?"

Magnus hesitated, choosing his next words carefully, and when he finally spoke, he was dead serious. "Sam… It's not in my interests as the curator of this fine collection for your dad to succeed. Think about it. You're Lucifer's Vessel. If Azazel and the Stynes do manage to unleash him, his top priority will be to find and claim you—you're the perfect bait. Then, it's just a matter of trapping him, and voila! I get to add an archangel to the mix. Why wouldn't I want that?"

Sam sat in stunned silence. He couldn't believe what he was hearing! Trap Lucifer? And what, turn him into a zoo creature? Was this guy insane? Sam might not have much experience with angels, and didn't know whether they were choir singers or instruments of God's wrath, but one thing he believed—Lucifer was the freaking devil, and his reputation was no joke. Setting a trap for him would be suicide.

"Tell me something, Magnus. In your time with the Men of Letters, did they ever mention the word, hubris?"

Magnus laughed. "Oh, they wouldn't shut up about it! But you know what, Sam?" He winked. "They're the ones who suffered the tragic downfall. Not I."

It was growing more and more difficult to contain his frustration, and Sam pounded on the bars. "You're crazy! Let me out!"

Magnus downed the rest of his whiskey and climbed to his feet. "This conversation's going nowhere. It's getting late, and we're both tired. Why don't we call it a night?" He ambled toward the cage, gazing in at Sam with an indulgent expression. "I'm going to give you a few hours to cool off, kiddo. Hopefully, in the morning, you'll be more agreeable."

"Don't count on it," Sam spat.

Magnus nodded. "You'll come around. It might take months—it might take years—but I'm a patient man, and we have all the time in the world. Literally." He spread out his arms, flaunting all the treasures he had on display. "Welcome to the collection." Smirking, he turned to leave.

Sam felt a wave of panic. No… He didn't want to spend the rest of the night stuck in a damn bird cage! "Magnus, wait!"

"Nighty-night, Sam," he called back, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder.

Sam clutched the bars, steeling himself for a fight. This wasn't the first time he found himself backed in a corner, and if he had to ram his way through Magnus, so be it. Concentrating, he closed his eyes and opened his mind. In this distance, he perceived countless monsters of all varieties—evil, angry, impotent—but they were too far away to channel. He had to focus on his captor.

Like Olivette, the high priestess of the Grand Coven—who attended the Stynes' wedding and accidentally supplied the psychic with her powers—Magnus had a wealth of magic at his disposal. If Sam could tap into it, hijack it, perhaps he could escape. Such a strategy worked before—it _had_ to work now.

But the moment their minds linked, Sam sensed surprise, astonishment, and finally retaliation. Magnus didn't just block him out, he blasted him out, knocking Sam backwards while making him gasp. As the cage rocked, Sam curled up in a ball, moaning in pain. So much for that.

Magnus stalked towards him, unable to hide his elation. "Psychic, Sam? You never mentioned you were psychic." He clucked his tongue, and Sam buried his face in his arms. "I have to say, I am impressed. Unfortunately for you, the Men of Letters always trained diligently to hone their mental discipline, so you'll find I'm not that easily manipulated. But nice try. You're obviously more valuable than I realized. That's good. So now, if your dad kills the demon and stops the devil from rising, I won't be quite as disappointed."

With that, he grabbed the cage and gave it a hard spin—it twirled faster than a speeding merry-go-round, and there was nothing Sam could do to slow it down.

 **SPN**

Even with duct tape spread firmly across Dean's mouth, his muffled cries were loud and agonizing. As Cyrus cowered behind a steel column, he tried covering his ears, but it didn't help. Eckhart relished the sound of screaming, and went out of his way to encourage it—breaking fingers, stabbing, punching, even electrocuting. He alternated between the two hunters, subjecting Bobby to the same abuse, and while he tortured one, his lackeys performed healing spells on the other. After all, they were necromancers—they had the ability to reanimate the dead! What were a few nonfatal injuries to the likes of them?

Cyrus couldn't stand it. The screaming, the smell of blood, the Nazis' cruel laughter. It was unbearable, making tears spill down his face. He had to do something! But what? What could he possibly hope to achieve against a demon and four thugs? Maybe… maybe if he ran away, he could find Sam and his father—or at the very least, call the cops. They would be far more useful to the prisoners than one measly kid.

Taking a deep breath, Cyrus peered around the column. With only a few old lanterns casting light in the abandoned building, the scene before him was truly sinister, shadowy and hellish. Everyone's attention was fixed on Dean, whose face was battered, bloody and bruised. His clothes were in tatters, and he was struggling to breathe—but despite all that, his eyes were brimming with fury. In the past, every time Jacob exposed Cyrus to such violence, the victims were always terrified—beyond terrified. But not Dean, and not Bobby. If they felt any fear at all, they masked it well with righteous anger.

Presently, Eckhart primed a gun with a silencer and aimed for Dean's knee. Cyrus spun around, covering his mouth to keep from crying. Dean howled as the bullet shattered his joint, and Cyrus made a break for the warehouse door. He realized he wasn't very sneaky, but his emotions were going haywire, and he lost control.

Sure enough, Shax noticed. "HEY!"

Cyrus ran as if his life depended on it, but didn't get far at all. Shax quickly caught up to him and grabbed his arm, yanking him back. Cyrus yelped as Shax spun him around and slapped him hard across the face.

"You little runt!" he snarled. "Jacob's already pissed that I lost track of Sam, and now he's on his way here, when he really wants to be searching for your bitch of a cousin, and how would it look if I had to explain your disappearance on top of all that? Do you have any idea how much trouble I'd be in?"

"Good!" Cyrus shrieked. "I hope he kills you!"

Shax narrowed his eyes and slapped the boy hard enough to fling him to the floor. Cyrus landed heavily on his hands and knees, whimpering in pain. The next thing he knew, Shax was tinkering with a pair of handcuffs. He knelt down and roughly fastened the adult-sized shackles around Cyrus' child-sized ankles. Securing them as tightly as possible, Shax picked the boy up and carried him over his shoulder back to the others. He made it a point to drop Cyrus in a puddle of Dean's blood, where he planted a foot on the boy's back to keep him from crawling away. The Nazis chuckled as Cyrus squirmed pathetically.

"Perhaps a short respite's in order," Eckhart suggested, nodding at his subordinates. They dutifully gathered around Dean and began the incantation to restore his health while their leader approached Bobby. The gruff old hunter strained against the duct tape, but was no match for his unyielding encumbrances. Eckhart leaned over him with a sadistic smile. "What if, this time, instead of breaking your fingers, I cut them off?"

"No!" Cyrus shouted.

Eckhart drew his knife and pressed the blade lightly against Bobby's right thumb—but instead of hacking, he waited, relishing in the hunter's helplessness. Meanwhile, his cohorts accomplished their healing spell, and Dean bellowed hysterically, struggling with renewed desperation. Everyone turned to watch as Eckhart toyed with his captive.

But then, out of nowhere, two guns fired from above, and two of Eckhart's lackeys hit the ground, dead.

Shax cursed while Eckhart and his fellow spun around. They all glanced up at the rafters, where they discerned movement in the shadows. A second volley discharged, raining bullets down on the surviving Thule with lethal precision. Shax stumbled backwards as the Nazis fell. A moment later, one of their assailants jumped from the ceiling to the floor, landing gracefully on his feet.

Cyrus gasped. "Benny!?"

The vampire snarled at the demon, baring his fangs. Unfortunately, with Shax possessing Rufus, he was reluctant to attack—which the demon noticed. He quickly drew a knife and held it against his own stomach, threatening to stab himself. "Stay back, or your friend dies!"

Bobby shook his head, protesting frantically through his gag, which compelled the vampire to retract his fangs. He held out his hands in surrender. "All right, just take it easy."

"Shut up!" Shax reached for Cyrus and snagged his hair.

"No!" the boy squealed, batting at the demon's hand. "Let me go!"

"SHUT UP!" Shax gave him a rough jerk, which sent shock waves coursing through his body. Cyrus groaned, glancing weakly at Dean—Sam's brother. Was that concern on his face?

Shax motioned for Benny to move aside. "You can have the damn hunters, but I'm taking Cyrus. He belongs with Jacob, and if you get in our way, Rufus will pay with his life. Understand?"

"By all means." The vampire backed off, much to Cyrus' alarm. He screamed as Shax began dragging him by the hair through the building—his scalp did not appreciate the mistreatment and burned painfully.

"STOP! LET ME GO! PLEASE!"

But Shax held on, and neither Benny nor his accomplice in the rafters did anything to help. In a matter of seconds, they were at the door. Shax shoved it open and heaved the boy outside—the freezing cold air made him gasp.

"Buck up, you stupid little brat," the demon chided, ushering him along. "You're only making things worse!"

Suddenly, Sam appeared through the shadows with a large bucket in his arms. In the blink of an eye, he tossed holy water in the demon's face. Shax yelled—literally sizzling—and dropped both Cyrus and the knife as he convulsed in agony.

Sam acted quickly, kicking the blade several feet away before scooping up Cyrus and scrambling backwards. "I've got you! It's okay! It's okay!" Cyrus buried his face in his friend's chest, unable to keep from crying.

Before Shax could recover, Benny charged from behind and tackled him to the ground. He made a swift search for other weapons, and confiscated a gun and two other knives. By the time he climbed off the demon, Shax was beside himself in fury.

"I'M GOING TO KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU, JACOB BE DAMNED!"

"You're not killing anyone," Sam retorted. "Not from inside that devil's trap."

Shax started, glancing down at the cement sidewalk. Sure enough, beneath a thin layer of snow, he could make out traces of a red, spray-painted pentagram.

"You're inside a friend of ours," Benny said with an unforgiving snarl. "So if you don't mind, we're kicking you out. Enjoy hell, you son of a bitch."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	26. The Shifter

**SPN**

 **(LeClaire, Iowa … Tuesday, December 8, 2005)**

Sam was starting to fear he might never escape. Not only was his cage virtually impenetrable, but when he finally had the presence of mind to release his spirit and astral project, the magical wards protecting the fortress kept him locked inside. He couldn't call for help. But at least he could wander the corridors, explore other rooms, and search for something useful—he had no idea what he hoped to find—certainly no windows—but it was better than languishing forever in a bird cage.

Magnus had apparently gone to bed, but the hallway lights remained on—albeit dimly. As Sam learned his way around, he tried not to think about what other creatures might be lurking in the shadows. Were they all contained? Or did some have extra privileges—like those vampires? Or that shape shifter? Would Magnus allow them out of their respective 'habitats' if he didn't trust them to behave? How many of his 'pets' were tame? If Sam ran into one, would it alert its master? Even as a disembodied spirit, he was still a captive, and Magnus might not appreciate his late-night escapade.

Overall, the more Sam reconnoitered, the more he marveled at his surroundings. Magnus was not exaggerating about the enormity of his collection—in one room, he had a tapestry that mapped out the lost city of Atlantis. In another, he had plant samples from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. The history alone was breathtaking, and under different circumstances, Sam would have been thrilled.

But none of it changed anything. Magnus was a cruel, self-centered scumbag, and Sam was desperate to find a way out.

 **SPN**

The next few hours were chaotic. With Jacob en route, the hunters could not afford to linger in town, but neither could they drop everything and flee. First, they had to burn the four necromancers' bodies, who might otherwise come back to life, and secure fresh clothing for the rescued prisoners, who were all covered in blood—including Cyrus.

Physically, Dean, Bobby and Rufus were fine. John, Sam, and Benny timed their attack perfectly between torture sessions, so everyone was healed. Nevertheless, Dean and Bobby were both shaken—people don't just 'get over' being tortured, especially by an experienced bastard like Eckhart. John feared the long-term repercussions. Dean was strong, but torture was torture.

While Sam and Rufus accompanied Dean, Bobby and Cyrus back to the hotel, John and Benny poured accelerant all over the warehouse, from top to bottom. A fire would no doubt alarm the locals, but it would cover their tracks, and hopefully, they'd be long gone before the police learned anything.

Once the match was lit, and the building engulfed by flames, John and Benny stood back a safe distance to watch. The inferno inevitably brought hell to mind, and John found himself fingering the angel blade, anticipating the fight ahead. He almost lost Dean tonight. The evil stalking his youngest son would not hesitate to butcher his oldest. The danger was indescribable. Could John actually lead his family—his _children_ —into such a battle? What might it cost? What would Mary think? How could he live with himself?

After awhile, Benny turned to regard him with a troubled look. "Did something happen to Sam tonight? He smelled different."

John barely registered the question. "He's fine. Magnus—Cuthbert Sinclair—cleansed his tattoo of Shax's demon soot. I'm not surprised he smells different. Untainted."

The vampire blinked. "So the Master of Spells pulled off what Miss Talbot could not. Did it cost anything? We were told not to trust Sinclair."

John brushed off the pointless inquiry. No, it didn't cost anything—Magnus was nothing but helpful. The spirit they consulted through Pamela was probably just paranoid. "He offered his expertise in memory of my father. Apparently, they really were friends."

Satisfied that nothing, neither snow nor rain, would quench the flames, John motioned for them to leave. Cops and firemen would soon be on their way, and it was always best to fly under their radar. Besides, they were in a hurry to put as much distance between themselves and Jacob as possible. This wasn't the time for small chat.

 **SPN**

Upon reaching the hotel, Dean's first priority was a hot shower. Despite weeks of practice constructing mental fortifications to block Sam out of his mind, he was now scrambling to hide his stress, not just from his brother, but from everyone. He needed space to compose himself—and if Jacob arrived before their departure, he would simply take his grievances out on the son of a bitch. What better way to vent?

Dean was furious with himself—how could he allow those Nazi bastards to get the drop on him? What happened to all those years of training? He should have seen them following; he should have sensed an ambush. He was a hunter, damn it! Not a victim. He was supposed to be strong—and how dare they hurt him? How dare they hurt Bobby?

Dean slammed his fist against the shower wall, cracking the tile. Pain blossomed through his hand, and he flashed back to the warehouse. Eckhart was leaning over him, whispering how he planned to eviscerate Bobby, just as soon as Jacob corralled Sam. He snapped Dean's finger as easily as snapping a twig. It was all Dean could do not to throw up.

Cursing, he focused on the present. He double-checked his hands, knee, chest, elbows, waist—every area the Nazi touched. It was like a dream. Did it actually happen? The pain was ungodly—it came in wave after wave after wave—but now, there wasn't a scratch on him. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. Just bury it. Forget. Don't think about it, and don't let Sam tap into it. Sam was already suffering enough. He didn't need the extra weight of Dean's baggage.

"Dean!" Bobby called through the door. "We need to leave! Two minutes!"

 **SPN**

Unlike most of his brethren, Lowell was absolutely devoted to his master. Before his captivity, he was nothing—a freak rejected by his own mother. He had no friends, no place to call home, and no reason to exist. His life was defined by loneliness and heartache.

But then came Magnus. Magnus offered shelter, sympathy, and most of all, belonging. So what if it meant giving up his wretched freedom? Lowell loved Magnus. He would do anything his master asked… Anything.

It wasn't fair! Why would Magnus send him away? Why would he command him to risk his life with these… these _hunters_? True, if they could stomach a vampire, they might not kill him on principle, but he was impersonating their beloved Sammy, and they wouldn't forgive such a crime. Not in a million years! As a shape shifter, Lowell could access the thoughts, memories, and personality of his disguise, but he wasn't delusional. The hunters were clever. Eventually, they would figure it out. Did Lowell's safety mean nothing to Magnus?

What should he do? Run away? No. Sam's bond with Jacob horrified the Winchesters. They would never let him out of their sight. Not for long, anyway.

Confess the truth? And betray his master? Never.

Kill them?

If he killed them, who would object to the real Sam's captivity? Jacob and possibly Azazel—but they weren't aware of Magnus. They would never find him. And as for Lucifer, if he tried anything, Magnus would simply trap him. Lowell didn't know how, but he honestly believed Magnus could trap anything—and Magnus _wanted_ the devil.

Killing them made sense. The more he thought about it, the more he justified it—he could only wonder why Magnus didn't consider it himself.

Granted, he would have to be careful. He was outnumbered, and these hunters were barbaric. They massacred four Nazis and exorcised a demon without the slightest reservation. Somehow, Lowell would have to kill them all at once. He could poison their food, or strangle them in their sleep. The sooner, the better. Then he could return home.

 **SPN**

By the time Jacob arrived in LeClaire, the Winchesters and their friends were gone. Without Shax, he couldn't pick up their trail, and without Cyrus, he was truly alone—worse off than when he started. To say he was pissed would be an understatement.

It was almost dawn as Jacob made his way to Sam's last-known location—an affordable, but surprisingly nice hotel, especially by Winchester standards. As soon as he noticed the hallway cameras, he proceeded to the security office, where he 'convinced' the night guard to show him recent footage. It might not help him find his quarry, but at the very least, he could observe his brother.

Sam…

God, he missed that boy. How much longer? The deprivation was killing him. He ached in ways he couldn't describe. He ached! He never felt such a need for Eldon, or Cyrus, or Lilibet, so what did it mean? Sam belonged to him. They were a part of each other.

When the boy finally appeared on screen, holding Cyrus in his arms, Jacob's heart skipped a beat. What the hell?

His eyes… They were glowing.

Retinal flares.

A shape shifter. Those idiots were consorting with a damn shape shifter! Did they have any idea!? And more importantly…

Where the bloody hell was Sam?

 **SPN**

With Benny on his motorcycle, and Bobby driving Sam, Dean, and Cyrus in the Impala, John was left with Rufus in the truck. They ventured west for several hours, mostly silent. Rufus obviously blamed himself for the near-disaster. He was an experienced hunter! How could he allow some minor demon to claim such an outrageous foothold? It was disgraceful, and no matter what John said, Rufus could not be consoled.

They took refuge in a motel with adjoining rooms, west of Des Moines, where Bobby, Dean, and Cyrus succumbed to exhaustion. Sam curled up on a couch, lost in thought, while Rufus and Benny poured salt lines by the doors and windows. John brewed some fresh coffee, and soon they were keeping watch and contemplating their next moves. How were they going to find Azazel? They only had two weeks, and the demon could be anywhere.

Shortly after 6:00 a.m., John's deliberations were interrupted by his vibrating phone. He pulled the device from his pocket and glanced uncertainly at the Caller ID. Sam?

He peered over at his youngest son, who was dozing off on the couch, despite obvious discomfort. His phone was stolen by Jacob back in New Jersey, which could only mean one thing. Son of a bitch. Why would Jacob be calling? To make threats? To bargain? To complain? Well, it wouldn't hurt to find out.

Bracing himself, John accepted the call. "This better be important," he growled quietly, not wanting to wake the boys, but Benny and Rufus both heard—and neither could hide their curiosity.

"Mr. Winchester," came Jacob's foul voice. "We should talk."

"Give me one good reason," John replied, clambering to his feet. Something warned him to keep this conversation private, so he trudged out to the parking lot.

"I believe you and I have a mutual concern," Jacob began, much to John's disgust. "Do you realize you're in the company of a shape shifter?"

Of all the reasons Jacob might call, this was at the bottom of the list. Blindsided, John caught his breath and instinctively scanned his surroundings—nothing out of the ordinary. "What are you playing at?" He hastened the rest of the way to his truck and searched his arsenal for silver bullets and a silver knife, just in case.

"Oh, I'm not playing," Jacob assured him. "I'm reviewing the security footage at your hotel in LeClaire." John scowled—the bastard was only a step behind them, and he was sick of running. "You're a skilled hunter, Mr. Winchester. Surely you know cameras have a reputation for glimpsing beyond the surface to lay bare the soul. Shape shifters are particularly vulnerable. Now, as much as I would love to watch this impostor make a fool of you, I can't help but wonder how it weaseled its way into your midst. Where did it stash its victim?"

John abruptly recalled Benny's recent apprehension. _"Did something happen to Sam tonight? He smelled different."_

A chill ran down his spine. "Sam?"

Naturally. The damn stalker wouldn't call for anyone else.

"Sam," he confirmed, and suddenly, against all odds, the two enemies found themselves on common ground.

Overwhelmed, John pressed a hand against his mouth. He grappled with the temptation to dismiss Jacob as a treacherous liar, but as he went over the past eighteen hours in his mind, he couldn't deny the possibility… When he and Sam first entered Magnus' fortress, they were attacked by vampires. The Master of Spells managed a zoo. When the time came to leave, he dumped them both outside—unconscious. Did he have the opportunity to replace Sam with a shifter? Yes. Did he have the means? Yes.

"Holy crap."

John's panic triggered Jacob's contempt. "You were supposed to protect him! How could you let this happen!?"

"I'll get him back," John snapped, but of course, that was easier said than done. Sam would be trapped inside a magical stronghold, which would be as difficult to infiltrate as the Stynes' safe house between realities. Damn. With the solstice looming on the horizon, this couldn't come at a worse time.

"Do you even know where he is?" There was no mistaking the dread mixed with Jacob's anger.

"Yes. That's not the problem." John began trembling as Sam's words echoed in his memory.

" _I don't like it here. And I don't like him."_

If Jacob was telling the truth, then Sam was living a whole new nightmare, and with a shifter on the field, he couldn't even count on his family to miss him. He must be terrified! First Dean was tortured, and now this? John felt a rush of fury that would have swept a lesser man into a frenzy.

"You know what?" he told Jacob. "I ought to have a nice long chat with the little freak. I'll call you back." Hanging up, he set his jaw and retraced his steps straight into the motel room. Benny and Rufus immediately picked up on his displeasure, but Sam—or rather Fake Sam—the purported psychic—did not. He remained asleep on the couch, perfectly impersonating the youngest Winchester, down to the very last detail. If Jacob was telling the truth, then John would owe the son of a bitch for raising the alarm—and _that_ pissed him off as much as anything.

Catching the shifter off guard, John carefully approached the couch and flattened the edge of the silver blade against his face. Steam sizzled off his skin, and he woke with a howl. Definitely a shifter. John punched him with all the strength of a raging marine, and he collapsed, unconscious.

 **SPN**

When Lowell awoke, he was tied to a chair with the hunters surrounding him, expressions hard and grim. They knew. How? How could they possibly know this early in the game? No matter. "Dad? What's going on?" He tugged on his restraints with all the disorientation he could muster—but his efforts only earned him a slap in the face.

"Spare us your routine," John said with a sneer. "You're not fooling anyone."

From the corner of his eye, Lowell glimpsed Cyrus cowering behind Bobby—and the kid's demeanor belied John's claim. Good to know. "Please. Don't hurt me."

"Don't give us a reason." John leaned over him, reeking of hatred. Lowell couldn't help but flinch. "You saw what happened to those Nazis. I could kill you as easily as I killed them, or I could experiment with their torture techniques, or I could release you, right now, and pretend this never happened. I don't blame you for Sam's abduction. You're nothing but a zoo animal, beholden to your master. Believe me, I get it. You didn't have a choice, and I sympathize. Cooperate, and you can live."

"He's not lying," Benny affirmed. "If he can tolerate a vampire, he can tolerate you."

Lowell hesitated. He would never betray Magnus, but he could always pretend. Buy himself some time. "What do you want from me? I was thrown out! I'm worthless, and he won't return your son for my sake, I can promise you that."

"You can help us break in."

Lowell laughed mirthlessly. "Are you kidding? That would make me a security risk—and he doesn't have security risks. If there was even the slightest chance I could help you, he would have killed me himself."

"Come on, man," Dean interrupted, stepping forward. Lowell met his gaze and observed his anguish. His love for Sam was palpable, reminding the shifter of his own unending ostracism. "Please. If there's even a scrap of decency in you, give us something to work with."

"Why?" Lowell asked jealously. Why didn't he deserve such devotion? Why did Magnus forsake him? It wasn't fair! "What makes you think Sam wants you to find him?" The scorn in his voice made Dean falter. "Truth is, when he was collected, he was actually relieved. He's safe now. You lot were never able to protect him. Not from the Stynes, not from the demons, not from Magnus… You couldn't even protect yourself from those Nazis, Dean! Sam's sick of it. He just wants to be left alone, and with Magnus, he finally has refuge. You're never going to see him again, and trust me, Sam's fine with that."

Dean visibly paled.

John, on the other hand, darkened. "Wrong answer." He brandished his gun, and Lowell had no doubt the bullets were silver. He didn't care—his soul was too bitter to care, and Dean's suffering was worth his life.

He only hoped Magnus would sometimes think of him, and remember his faithful service.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	27. Strategies

**SPN**

 **(LeClaire, Iowa … Tuesday, December 8, 2005)**

When morning came—according to various clocks on the walls and mantels—Sam's spirit returned to his body in the bird cage. He was no closer to escaping, but if he planned to keep prowling around the fortress, he had to avoid detection. So until he learned Magnus' daily routine, he had better sit tight and wait—as much as that sucked.

With the lights turned down, the drawing room was dark and eerie. Sam didn't sense anyone else in the vicinity, but some of the relics were unnerving. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement near a display of samurai armor, but when he looked directly at it, nothing happened. Even more disturbing was the massive painting of Medusa's severed head that 'decorated' the wall across from him—a throng of coiled snakes writhed from the gorgon's scalp, and as blood drained out of her neck, her eyes rolled in agony. Why the hell would Magnus want something so grotesque? Sam shuddered.

It was hard not to move. Even after a night of astral projection—which sapped most of his energy—Sam was restless and agitated. His cage had more or less settled, but every time he shifted, every time his leg tremored, the spinning and swaying resumed. Sam wasn't prone to claustrophobia, but right now, he could scream—he didn't, because Dean wouldn't, but the urge was still strong.

He missed Jacob.

Oh, God…

Logically, Sam knew Jacob wasn't any better than Magnus. He was probably worse, considering his hatred for John and Dean. But from the moment their minds merged back on that island a week ago—which reinforced their bond, as Pamela put it—Sam was more confused than ever. Yes, he feared Jacob as much as he feared Azazel, but at the same time, he would happily trade Magnus for his eldest brother. At least Jacob treated him like family, instead of a pet.

What if Jacob found him here? What if John and Dean, fooled by the shape shifter, went on with their lives while Jacob 'rescued' him from Magnus? What then? Could Sam's brain—which loathed everything about the Stynes—compete with his growing compulsion to yield to his brother? What if he broke? What if Jacob won?

At least he wouldn't be trapped in this bird cage.

No, but he would be caught in something far more insidious. Sam clenched his eyes shut, suddenly struggling to breathe. His heart began pounding, and he realized he was suffering a panic attack. He occasionally had them as a child, overwhelmed by the reality of ghosts and other monsters, but thankfully, John and Dean always knew how to calm him—back then, anyway. Everything was different now.

It took several minutes to compose himself, and by then, he was no longer alone.

Sensing her presence, Sam opened his eyes and gripped the iron bars, gazing out at the ghost of his girlfriend. "Jessica?" She stood five feet away, wearing the same blue dress from the wedding. Rhinestones glittered in her golden hair, but her skin was ashen, and her expression was forlorn. Sam shook his head. "No. You can't be real. There's nothing in this place to attract your spirit."

"There's you," she countered gently. "Did you never think I might attach myself to you? I love you, Sam."

His eyes welled with tears. He was still mourning her death, and as much as he wanted to believe she was somehow tied to him—that their love was transcendent—he knew better. Why would she appear to him now, when he was trapped in a magical fortress by a powerful spell-caster? In all probability, she was simply an illusion. "Why's he doing this? What does he want?"

"Don't think about him," Jessica advised, stepping towards the bird cage. She reached up her hand, as if to stroke his face, but then she paused, repelled by the iron bars. Sam fought the temptation to slip out his own arm, to return the gesture, but he was a hunter, and buying into this fantasy would be a mistake. Jessica didn't seem to notice his skepticism. "I wish we could be together."

Sam bowed his head. "Jess…" How could he tell her what he really felt? "I'm so sorry. It's my fault… But you can't stay here. You have to move on. Please." If she appeared to him as some kind of vengeful spirit, on top of everything else, he wouldn't know how to cope.

Confused, Jessica furrowed her brow. "We could have been happy together."

"It's too late for that," Sam replied. "I'm sorry."

She dropped her arm, slowly stepping back. Her plaintive expression was heartrending. "Don't you want me?"

More than anything, but she wasn't real. She didn't have the essence of an actual ghost—she felt more like a dream. Sam wasn't going to open up to a dream, especially not here, where Magnus could be watching. "Move on, Jess. I don't have what you're looking for."

"Tell me you love me," she insisted.

"I can't," he said, weakly. "You're not her."

"But I'm as close to her as anything will ever be," she assured him. "And I can stay with you. I can comfort you, and love you, and help you endure this ordeal. Just say the word, and you never have to be alone again."

Running his hands through his hair, Sam considered her offer. Accepting it was out of the question, but why would she even make it? What was she doing here? What could Magnus hope to gain from this deception? "No," he told her as firmly as possible. "I can't do it. I'm sorry, Jess, but it's not real. So move on."

She studied him thoughtfully, and then her eyes glazed over. Sam frowned, but didn't have time to process the implications. Suddenly, a current of electricity charged down the chain from the ceiling and encompassed the bird cage, jolting Sam with a barrage of painful sparks. He yelped in surprise, recoiling violently. The cage rocked, and everything began spinning.

A moment later, the attack ceased, and Sam slumped to the floor, shaking fiercely as the pain faded. What the hell?

As the cage slowly settled, Magnus sauntered into the room. He whistled in admiration, circling around Jessica's frozen figure while Sam glowered at him resentfully. What right did he have to use her like this? It was an outrage to her memory, and when Magnus swept his arm through her body, dispersing her into mist, Sam grabbed two of the bars and strained against them with everything he had.

Magnus met his gaze with false sympathy. "You have fine taste in women, sport. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Screw you!" Frustrated, Sam surveyed the countless weapons on display—swords and daggers from every era, from every corner of the world. If he could just get his hands on one of them… he would what? Kill the bastard? Despite everything, Magnus was still human. Could Sam go through with killing him? Murdering him?

"You know," Magnus said, leaning against a display case while crossing his arms. "I have to give you credit, Sam. It takes a lot of discipline, a lot of character, to pass a test like that, and you aced it. With the right training, you would have made an exceptional Man of Letters. One of the greatest."

"And that's why you shocked me?" Sam asked through gritted teeth.

Magnus made a wry face. "Yeah, about that… Unfortunately, I'm not here to evaluate your potential. I'm here to kick-start your reconditioning."

"My what?"

Magnus sighed. "You're not going to like this, and I don't blame you, but I have to look at the big picture."

Sam shook his head, heart pounding. "What are you talking about?"

"I have a plan to trap Lucifer." He paused, waiting for Sam to comprehend his statement. Meanwhile, his compassion—what little he had—gave way to excitement. "It's pretty clever, if I do say so myself. Angels are celestial beings composed of divine energy known as grace. Remove the grace, and the angel is crippled."

Sam listened warily. "That's not…? How would you even…?"

Magnus chuckled. "A few of my old buddies designed a special syringe that can do the trick, but obviously, it requires the angel to occupy its Vessel." Sam covered his mouth, suddenly nauseous. "So, once Lucifer takes possession of you, I'll trap him in a ring of burning holy oil. I'll extract his grace, and I'll lock him away. He'll be my main attraction. My greatest prize."

"And what happens to me?" Sam demanded.

Magnus shrugged. "Well, Lucifer will have priority over your body. I imagine he'll tuck your consciousness away in some distant corner of your mind, where you can't bother him—unless, of course, he desires your company—which he might, if he's a prisoner. I honestly don't know; I've never met the guy. But either way, as I said, you're not going to like it."

"You son of a bitch!"

"It's a good plan, sport. It could really work. However…" Magnus frowned. "You'll have to agree to it. Angels aren't like demons. They need their Vessels' consent to take possession."

For the first time in ages, Sam felt a flood of relief coursing through him. He almost smiled. "Well, in that case, you can just forget it! Cause it's never gonna happen."

Magnus nodded. "I'm not surprised you feel that way. Hence the reconditioning." A second surge of electricity enveloped the bird cage, and Sam convulsed in agony. He might have screamed, but his breath caught in his throat. When Magnus finally took pity on him, lifting the spell, Sam collapsed, twitching and shuddering pathetically.

"I'm sorry, sport. This doesn't bring me any pleasure, but it's the only way to collect Lucifer, and I can't pass that up. So for the next two weeks, we're gonna run through a series of exercises where you'll be punished for rebellion and rewarded for submission. With any luck, you'll have a much better attitude by the night of the solstice."

 **SPN**

Words could not describe the depth of Dean's fury. Somehow, Cuthbert Sinclair, or Magnus, or whatever the hell he called himself, had kidnapped Sam right out from under John's nose. (Was that even possible? Their dad was too competent to allow such a crime!) But he was no more to blame than Dean was for failing to recognize Sam's replacement. Dean let the Nazis distract him. Reeling from his torture, he was too self-absorbed to sense anything wrong. He let his brother down.

And if that wasn't bad enough, they owed Jacob of all people for uncovering the truth. Son of a bitch! They owed Jacob… The very thought made Dean sick. He could already picture the bastard using this disaster to make a case for himself, to convince Sam he was the better brother. What if Sam believed him?

Ashamed, frustrated, and thoroughly pissed off, Dean wanted nothing more than to kill something. John let the shifter off lightly, shooting it point-blank in the heart when it deserved to suffer. Dean would have skinned it alive.

Noticing his aggression, Bobby spent part of the drive back to LeClaire trying to counsel him, despite Cyrus in the back seat. "You've been a hunter long enough to know shit happens, and you've got a right to be angry, Dean, I won't argue with that, but if you sink to their level, you let them win."

"I don't want to talk about it," Dean grumbled. As much as he loved the old hunter, he was not above punching him in the face. Sam was in trouble! Apparently, Magnus had a supernatural zoo within his fortress, and for whatever reason, he considered Sam a monster worth confining. Dean would have been indignant if he wasn't so horrified. He had to do something! Now!

Needless to say, when they arranged to meet with Jacob to discuss an alliance, Dean could hardly contain himself. Work with Jacob!? It made sense. The Stynes were familiar with magical wards and they had history with the Men of Letters. As obsessed as he was with Sam, Jacob would share Dean's eagerness to mount a rescue, and if he decided to betray them—which could only be expected—he was outnumbered by hunters and a vampire. They had the advantage. But still, considering how much they hated each other—how much Dean blamed Jacob for _everything_ —how could he possibly refrain from killing him on sight?

It was quarter past noon on Tuesday when John led Dean through the doors of a local restaurant. (Bobby was keeping an eye on Cyrus while Rufus and Benny took up strategic positions around the building to provide cover, should Jacob try stabbing them in the back.) It was a nice, public place—primarily men and women on their lunch hour—which would discourage the enemies from attacking each other. They couldn't afford to draw attention to themselves.

Jacob was already sitting at a rectangular table in the corner of the room, with three untouched plates of fish and three mugs of coffee—some kind of peace offering? Or poison? Either way, Dean wasn't having it. He would rather starve.

Stopping short, he suspiciously appraised the son of a bitch. For someone who fell over a hundred feet less than a week ago, Jacob looked as robust as ever, and his eyes were both perfectly intact, as if their fight on the Paulinskill Viaduct had never happened. The Nazis must have healed him. Dean grimaced.

Jacob, in turn, welcomed them with icy scorn. He rose begrudgingly when he saw them approach, at least attempting to act civil, but the tension surrounding them was still so apparent, more than one gawker glanced their way. After a brief staring contest, they silently took their seats.

Now what? Dean had nothing kind to say to Jacob, and the feeling was obviously mutual. They were both chomping at the bit, ready to lunge for each other's throats, and Dean had to constantly remind himself that his brother's freedom might depend on their cooperation. Sometimes, life really sucked.

"So," Jacob eventually said. "Would either of you care to explain where Sam is?"

Dean couldn't help himself. "Screw you."

"Dean," his father chided softly. As the young hunter fumed, John steadily met Jacob's gaze. "Our search for a weapon to kill Azazel brought us to a proficient spell-caster who calls himself Magnus. His real name is Cuthbert Sinclair, and as far as we know, he's the last surviving member of the Men of Letters—or he would have been, if he wasn't expelled in 1956 for gross misconduct." Jacob raised his eyebrows. "Since then, he's been living in a magical fortress where he collects supernatural antiquities and monsters. Naturally, we kept Sam's… condition… a secret." Jacob and Dean both bristled at his word choice. "But something must have tipped him off. He's the only one capable of replacing Sam with a shifter. He's the only one who makes sense."

"I hardly believe it," Jacob said. "A dishonorable Man of Letters? And Sam didn't notice?"

"Oh, he noticed all right," John replied. "But he's so desperate to stop Azazel and Elizabeth, he's willing to give just about anyone the benefit of the doubt. Even you." The concession made Jacob smile. "Now, I've come up with a strategy that might get us through the door, but I could use your help to iron out the details."

"Of course," Jacob agreed, and Dean could only hope they weren't making a terrible mistake.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author**_ _ **'s Note:**_ _I don't know why, but I just love adversarial team-ups! :-)_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	28. Incursion

_**Author's Note:**_ _Hi everyone! This chapter was a beating to write, so I hope it doesn't disappoint. Thank you all so much for your continued support. You're the reason I put so much effort into this story. :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(LeClaire, Iowa … Tuesday, December 8, 2005)**

Magnus could not remember the last time he felt so… delighted… by an acquisition. Sam was truly a breath of fresh air. When the boy first turned up with his father, he seemed so fragile and reserved. While John made quick work of those two vampires, Sam struggled to defend himself. He was obviously self-conscious of his tattoo, burdened by his psychic abilities, and frightened of his role as Lucifer's Vessel—which Magnus found endearing. But he wasn't just some patsy; he had a good head on his shoulders and a surprisingly high tolerance for pain. If their first 'training' session was anything to go by, he would be a challenge to recondition.

Of course, Magnus didn't mind challenges. They kept life interesting, and to be honest, he was getting bored. Who would have thought longevity could be so tedious? The zoo helped, but something was still missing, and Magnus would be damned if he knew what. A legacy of his own, perhaps? Happily, if John managed to prevent the devil from rising, Sam would make a fine protégé. No matter what the future held in store, Magnus was bound to benefit, so yes. He was indeed delighted.

Currently holed up in his private study, Magnus savored an apricot chicken salad while granting Sam a short reprieve—the poor boy had such a long morning. He deserved a break. Besides, Magnus was hungry. His 'pets' were all contained in magical 'habitats' where their digestive and excretory systems were basically suspended. Magnus had no desire to feed or clean up after them, so he found a spell to erase the need.

However, as convenient as it was depriving them of food, Magnus enjoyed eating far too much to deprive himself. Recognizing the hypocrisy, he occasionally favored his pets with different treats—especially when they behaved—but Sam wasn't ready for such indulgences, and Magnus wasn't cruel enough to dine in front of him. Therefore, he took his leave, and while Sam languished in his bird cage, Magnus satisfied his cravings.

At the same time, he considered his other challenge. Lucifer. Even if he could trap the fallen angel in a ring of burning holy oil, how would he get close enough to extract the grace? He seriously doubted Lucifer would tolerate a needle, which meant somehow he had to stun the bastard. Easier said than done, but he would find a way. After all, he always did.

Ten minutes later, he was in the process of consulting his favorite grimoire, when suddenly, his phone began to rang. He wrinkled his nose at the distraction, but was never one to stifle his curiosity. Who would be calling? He promptly pulled his phone from his pocket and answered, "This is Magnus."

"Magnus," came a deep, familiar voice. "It's John Winchester."

Henry's boy. Despite all his scheming to claim custody of Sam, Magnus genuinely admired the hunter, and was pleased to hear from him. "John!" he said, beaming. "What can I do for you? If this is about the spell you requested to stop the ritual, you'll have to be patient. It hasn't even been twelve hours yet."

"No, I'm calling about something else," John replied. "We ran into Jacob Styne this morning. It was bound to happen; he's been stalking us for weeks."

"Well, you are legacies," Magnus said, unsurprised. The Stynes were obsessed with sacrificing legacies—not to mention, they were obsessed with Sam.

John grunted. "Long story short, we managed to overpower him with the help of some friends. We would have killed him, but he convinced Sam he can track the Book of the Damned with a magical compass. He'll show us how to use it—if we spare his life."

"I see…" Magnus smirked at the mention of Sam. Lowell was obviously performing nicely. "So let me guess. You want my help making sense of the compass so you can find the Book without compromising with a Styne."

"You game?" John asked, and Magnus hesitated.

It was a tough call. Ordinarily, he'd jump at the chance to collect the notorious spell book. It would almost be as thrilling as Lucifer himself. Almost. But if they got their hands on the Book of the Damned, who would perform the ritual? No one. Lucifer would remain stuck in Hell, and Magnus would be disappointed, regardless of his consolation prizes.

He could tell himself twenty times he didn't care how it all played out. If John failed on his quest, Magnus would eagerly embrace Lucifer. But if John triumphed, he would still have Lucifer's Vessel, and that was sufficient.

No. Magnus was lying to himself. Truthfully, deep down, he wanted Lucifer more than anything. More than Sam, and definitely more than the Book. He could no longer sit back and wait on providence. He had to forge his own destiny. It was time for him to act.

"Tell you what," he finally said. "Come on over. Bring the compass. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Magnus," John replied, sounding relieved. "You're a good friend."

Magnus rolled his eyes. "Well, don't thank me yet."

He would have to kill the hunter. It was the safest option. With John dead, Azazel and the Stynes could perform their ritual unchecked. Lucifer would rise, and he would come for his Vessel. Magnus could hardly contain his excitement.

 _I'm sorry, Henry,_ he thought to himself. _I promise, I'll make it up to you._

 **SPN**

"He bought it," John said, slipping his phone back in his pocket. They were all parked on the outskirts of town, near the tree line. Only Bobby and Cyrus were absent—they couldn't trust Jacob around the kid, and besides, if their rescue mission failed, someone had to finish the hunt for Azazel and Elizabeth. Bobby had the angel blade and, if they weren't back by nightfall, he was encouraged to proceed without them.

"Now comes my favorite part," Dean quipped, squaring off against Jacob. His rival met his gaze contemptuously, but if they were going to pass him off as a prisoner, they had to make it convincing.

"Give it your best shot," he provoked, and Dean punched him hard in the face. Jacob fell back a step, grimacing in displeasure. Without a second thought, he returned the strike, all but knocking the daylights out of Dean. He would have hit the ground if Rufus wasn't there to catch him, but he was quick to rebound, retaliating with a forceful uppercut. Jacob grabbed his shoulders and plowed his knee into his stomach. He would have followed through with another blow if Benny didn't stop him.

"All right, that's enough!" he said, separating the two. He went on to handcuff Jacob's wrists while John and Rufus bolstered Dean.

"I'm fine," he impatiently assured them, pushing them away. He didn't need their mothering, not in front of Jacob. The son of a bitch was always watching, relishing every sign of weakness, and the more they put up with each other, the more Dean feared for Sam. Of course, he always knew Jacob was deranged, obsessed, and sadistic, but knowing something and witnessing it, up close and personal, were two entirely different things. How could Sam 'bond' with someone so hateful? Supernatural, psychic crap. And the more Dean endured Jacob's presence, the more he shuddered to think of the bastard messing around inside his brother's head.

With John in the lead, they hiked through the woods to Magnus' fortress. Rufus and Benny tightly flanked Jacob while Dean brought up the rear. When they reached the clearing, the vaporous portal with its golden core awaited them expectantly.

Jacob sneered at the sight. "Someone's pretentious."

John grunted, glancing back at Benny. "You don't have to come if you don't want to."

The vampire had every reason to stay behind. If they weren't careful, Magnus would eagerly add him to his collection—especially after losing a pair to John. By following them into a supernatural zoo, Benny was risking far more than his life. He was risking his freedom. Which was worse?

Needless to say, Benny wasn't fazed. "No worries, chief. I'm itching to meet the fella." No surprise he took offense to the place.

Jacob rolled his eyes. "Can we get this show on the road?"

"Why?" Rufus asked. "There somewhere you gotta be?" He whacked Jacob upside the head, much to Dean's satisfaction. The Styne growled, but no one seemed to care.

Nevertheless, he had a point. The situation was dire, and they should hurry. For Sammy's sake.

Sparing a quick glance at Dean, who acknowledged his apprehension with a quick nod, John motioned for everyone to follow. Together, they ventured through the portal with unwavering resolve.

 **SPN**

The next thing Dean knew, he was standing alone in the hallway of a masculine mansion with a _Godfather_ vibe. The decorations were antiquated, and the silence was sinister. Drawing his gun, he took stock of his environment, half expecting monsters to jump out at him. Magnus had a very interesting definition of the word 'hospitality.'

Sure enough, as he cautiously slinked forward, a pack of four snarling creatures rounded the corner to greet him. They were humanoid—two men and two women, dressed in brown trousers and loose-fitting black tunics with silver embroidery—but their long black claws and amber fox-like eyes gave them away. Kitsunes.

A small smile tugged at Dean's lips. Finally. Something to kill.

 **SPN**

"I'm getting too old for this," Rufus grumbled while regarding a lovely Korean ghost in the hallway of a haunted mansion. She must have been fifteen or sixteen when she died. A damn shame. Why should he survive so long while she perished at her age? Whose idea was that? And what kind of sick pervert was Cuthbert Sinclair to trap her in this hell house when she deserved to rest?

As the ghost's expression contorted in pain and hostility, Rufus plucked a large flask from inside his jacket. He always carried a variety—for drinking, for holy water, and in this case, for salt. "Sorry, sweetheart," he told his would-be assailant as he hastily poured a line from the wall on his left to the wall on his right. It would cut her off—prevent her from following. "I really don't plan on dying today."

 **SPN**

When Benny found himself alone in a mysterious hallway decorated with oversized Renaissance paintings, primarily of classical mythology, he couldn't help but think of Purgatory. The harsh landscape of his former realm barely resembled this display of sophistication, but instinct assured him, beneath the surface, the two locations were equally threatening.

He could smell the sons of bitches. Werewolves. A whole pack, lurking behind doors and corners, waiting eagerly to pounce. The lunar cycle didn't fit—hell, it wasn't even night out!—but all the same, he recognized their smell. Perhaps Magnus could account for their transformation with his magic. Either way, Benny was no stranger to fighting hoards of monsters. If Magnus wanted to kill him, he would have to step up his game.

 **SPN**

As soon as Jacob realized he was alone, he snapped apart his handcuffs and took in his surroundings. Unlike most of his relatives, he never had the honor of contending with the Men of Letters—they were massacred well before his birth. His father always spoke highly of them, respecting their knowledge and resources, but honestly, judging from this corridor, Jacob wasn't impressed. Cuthbert Sinclair must be overcompensating—gaudy bastard.

And what made him think he had a claim on Sam? Sam belonged to his family, and if Jacob happened to encounter the Master of Spells, he wouldn't just kill him for his presumption. He would crucify him.

Dropping his mental defenses, Jacob exposed his aura to anyone—or anything—in the fortress with psychic sensitivity. Hopefully, Sam would detect his presence and reach out to him.

 _Come on, Sammy. Let me know where you are._

Mindful of the possibility that Sinclair was magically interfering with his brother's abilities, Jacob set off in search of the boy. He had to find him! With intense focus, he progressed down the corridor, checking every door along the way. In a matter of minutes (far too quickly), he chanced upon a massive chamber that contained a luxury swimming pool with expensive tile, fountains, and decorative urns.

Sam was fastened firmly to a chaise lounge with nylon rope—he looked precious in a cashmere sweater, pulled over a dress shirt, with a silk gag around his mouth. Next to him stood Lilibet, in a bold summer dress with flowers in her hair. She carried a knife in her hand, but smiled cheerfully at the sight of her cousin. "Jacob! I was hoping you'd find us. I have a gift for you." She indicated Sam, who squirmed nervously against his restraints.

It was everything Jacob wanted—his brother in his custody, and Lilibet in his corner.

So tempting…

But Jacob wasn't fooled. First of all, Lilibet wasn't here, and more importantly, this Sam was different. Inaccessible—like a stranger. Jacob and Sam were far from strangers, which meant this was an illusion. Honestly, how stupid did Jacob look?

"Let me guess," he growled, considering the significance of the swimming pool. "You bastards must be sirens."

 **SPN**

Still confined to his bird cage, Sam could barely lift his head. He'd be damned—literally—if Magnus reconditioned him, so he fought with every last breath, and the punishment was severe. Even now, his body spasmed from the aftershocks of his torture, and it was all he could do not to bite his tongue. Tears poured down his face, and he prayed for it to end. He was going to die. Magnus promised to keep him alive, but how? How the hell could he possibly endure this pain?

Magic…

Even as the word popped in his head, Sam's extrasensory perceptions warned him of his brother's arrival—he jerked in a mixture of fear, hope, and revulsion. Jacob! Jacob was coming for him, and Sam was helpless to stop it. He whimpered, fidgeting desperately. As much as he loathed his brother, he also longed for his protection. Their spirits were intertwining—slowly but surely. A few more days together, and Sam might finally bend to his brother's will.

 _Come on, Sammy. Let me know where you are._

"Jacob," he managed to reply—his voice was hoarse from screaming. "Jacob! JACOB!"

 **SPN**

Magnus had to give these hunters credit. They knew what they were doing. Even on their own, against impossible odds, they sliced through his ranks like champions. Good. If Henry's son was destined for a mundane life, denied his true heritage, at least he kept company with heroes. Not that it changed anything. Magnus had plenty of monsters to spare, and eventually, his enemies would succumb. But at least they would die with honor.

Returning to his study, Magnus was pleased to find John Winchester on the floor, unconscious, with Nadir kneeling over him. A powerful djinn—covered in tattoos, with glowing blue eyes—Nadir had the ability to trap his victims in dream worlds where they could experience a lifetime of happiness while he drank their blood. It was a gentle—almost kind—way to perish—appropriate for Henry's son. He deserved better, but Magnus had too much at stake. After all, Lucifer!

"How long can you ration him, Nadir?"

The djinn's hand kindled blue fire as he caressed John's face. "Indefinitely, my lord."

"Good," Magnus said. If Sam managed to combat his reconditioning, it wouldn't hurt to have some hostages on the night of the solstice. Just in case.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	29. Trapped

**SPN**

 **(LeClaire, Iowa … Tuesday, December 8, 2005)**

When the siren masquerading as Lilibet launched herself at Jacob, he met her with unflinching brutality. Just because he required a special weapon to kill her (a bronze dagger dipped in the blood of a sailor in her thrall) didn't mean he was helpless to cripple her. She was a domesticated zoo creature—hardly intimidating. Captivity had a way of tempering one's fortitude, and she was no exception. As she attacked, brandishing her knife, he skillfully blocked and countered with forceful jabs to her pretty face.

Alarmed, the siren masquerading as Sam vaporized his restraints—a part of the illusion—and rushed to the female's aid. Jacob side-kicked him square in the chest, propelling him backwards and over the edge of the pool—the water splashed and the female shrieked. She tried stabbing him, but he caught her wrist and slammed his head down on top of hers, knocking her in a daze. He turned to watch the male resurfacing, suddenly rinsed of his disguise. His true visage was skeletal and macabre, with a gaping mouth, pale rotting flesh, and hollow eyes.

Jacob sneered. "And they call you seductive?"

Instead of answering, the male remained waist-deep in the water, glowering in frustration—which gave Jacob the impression he couldn't climb out. Interesting. Perhaps the pool served as the sirens' enclosure. It made sense; they were in a zoo, and sirens came from the sea. Sinclair must be encapsulating their natural environments. What did that mean for Sam?

"Give up," the female spat as she regained her bearings. With the help of a lounge chair, she pulled herself to her feet. "You can't escape, and the more difficult you make this, the more painful it's going to be."

"Oh, it'll be painful, all right," Jacob retorted. He drew his own knife from the sheath under his coat. "Just not for me." He motioned for her to join the male in the pool. "My quarrel's not with you, doll, but if you don't get out of my way, I'll cut you limb from limb."

She fumed, but apparently her devotion to Sinclair had its limits. Sirens were enchanters, not soldiers, and she wasn't going to risk her safety against someone as defiant as Jacob. Accepting defeat, she dropped her weapon and shuffled into the water. Immediately, her guise melted away, leaving behind a creature as hideous as a bald wraith.

Satisfied, Jacob's mind turned back to Sam. Enough of these games. He had to save his brother! Eager to resume his search, Jacob faced the door leading out into the hall, only to find himself confronting the boy's apparition. He was astral projecting again, and this time, there was no question of his identity. He was really Sam.

"Jacob," he moaned, obviously in distress. "Help me."

"Where are you?" Jacob demanded, stalking towards him.

"This way…" Sam led him out of the chamber and, together, they advanced through the twisting corridors. Neither said a word—Sam required all his energy, all his concentration, to maintain his projection, and if he exhausted himself, Jacob might have to carry him out. Luckily, he seemed to know his way around—his powers were improving—and before long, they burst into a formal drawing room where Sinclair displayed a compilation of his favorite treasures—including Sam.

Jacob stopped short at the sight of his little brother sprawled out inside a Gothic bird cage, suspended five feet off the ground. He almost smiled—it was a quaint prison with excellent craftsmanship and decorative flourishes—perfect for Sam. But then his thoughts overcame his sensibilities, and he seethed in jealousy. Sinclair went so far as to change Sam's clothes! What gave him the right to exert such dominance? Sam belonged to the Stynes, and Jacob didn't share!

Aborting his projection, Sam's spirit returned to his body, but even conscious, he could barely sit up. "Jacob…" He looked feverish, sweating and trembling pathetically. What the hell did Sinclair do to him?

"Take it easy, kiddo. I've got this." Jacob took stock of the room, anxious to find a key to unlock the cage. Instead, he happened to glimpse an ancient longsword that bore an astonishing resemblance to Ascalon, the dragon-slaying sword of St. George. Could it be? Was it remotely possible? How the hell did a man like Sinclair acquire such a pure, holy weapon—second only to Excalibur?

Forged with dragon blood, the straight, double-edged blade was powerful enough to sunder dragon scales. It was beautiful, engraved with the warrior's name and glistening with the essence of his virtue. Jacob approached it reverently, claiming it for himself. Where was the scabbard? If Sinclair had it, he wasn't displaying it—he must not care to cover up such an impressive weapon.

If it could slay dragons, surely it could handle a few iron bars.

Jacob hastened over to the bird cage. "Cover your head," he told Sam before swinging the sword like a baseball bat (his father would berate him for such poor technique, but he wasn't here right now). When the blade struck the first bar, the iron shattered like glass—definitely magical. Jacob swung again and again and again, until the gap was large enough for him to squeeze through.

"Come on, Sammy," he said, dropping the sword so he could reach in and seize his brother's arms. Sam skittishly shied back, but he was in no condition to struggle, and deep down, he preferred Jacob over Sinclair. Whether he realized it or not, he loved Jacob.

"That's it…" Jacob pulled him out of the cage and caught him in his embrace. Sam sagged against him, flimsy and lethargic—as if drugged—and Jacob welcomed his vulnerability. It was a thrill rescuing him. "You're safe now," he cooed, pressing his brother's cheek against his chest while stroking his hair, barely registering his faint protests. "Let's get you out of here."

Squatting, he bowed his head and draped Sam's right arm around the back of his neck. He then reached his own right arm between Sam's legs and lifted, slinging Sam's body over his shoulders, distributing his weight as evenly as possible. To keep him from squirming, Jacob pulled the boy's right arm across his chest, clutching his wrist tightly with his right hand. It was the classic 'fireman's carry,' and thanks to his enhancements, Jacob could maintain the hold for as long as necessary. With his left hand free, he reached for the sword and turned to face the door.

Much to his annoyance, he found the vampire blocking his path. The bastard must have tracked Sam's scent, and now he growled dangerously.

"Let him go."

At the sound of his voice, Sam jerked in surprise. "Benny?" The vampire's presence meant his friends weren't far behind. "Dean…?"

Jacob bristled. _Dean_. Always _Dean_. Why must the thought of _Dean_ spoil everything? What would it take for Sam to finally forget the son of a bitch? Would he have to harvest his damn heart!?

Sam whimpered, no doubt picking up on Jacob's hostility.

Ignoring him, Jacob glowered at the vampire. "He can't walk on his own—Sinclair did something to him. I suppose you could carry him if you really wanted to, but then, you'd be weighed down, and I might take advantage of that."

Benny narrowed his eyes suspiciously while Sam tried making an appeal. "Jacob…"

"Don't talk," he shushed the boy. He had to focus on the vampire. "It's still too early in the game to be crossing each other, wouldn't you agree? We still have to escape."

Benny hesitated, but Jacob had a point, and he knew it. "Fine. Just as long as we're clear—no leaving the others behind. We have to help them."

Jacob scoffed. Yeah. Right. "Well, you're the bloodhound, vampire. Lead the way." He tightened his grip on the sword. If anyone made a move on Sam, he would kill them in a damn heartbeat. To hell with the Winchesters. He finally had his brother back, and no one—no one!—would take him away.

 **SPN**

After what felt like hours, Dean caught sight of Rufus down the hall. He was currently in a skirmish with several—God only knew. They looked human, but so did countless other creatures, and judging from their aggression, they were hardly innocent. Brandishing his machete, Dean rushed to the hunter's aid.

In short order, they dealt with the swarm, severing heads from bodies with ruthless determination. Surprisingly, Dean wasn't tired—it actually felt good having an outlet to vent. He had spent so much time trying to contain his turmoil—tortured by Nazis, mocked by Jacob, devastated by Sam's abduction—that he welcomed this cathartic 'free for all.' It didn't wear him out; it energized him. It made him feel alive.

"Any sign of the others?" he asked while Rufus caught his breath.

"Nah… Just the welcoming committee, and now you. Honestly, boy, would it hurt your dad not to piss off everyone he meets?"

"It's not his fault the world's full of dicks."

Rufus chuckled. "I guess not. All right, then. Let's finish this."

 **SPN**

Magnus could not believe what he observed on his security screens. Two of his 'guests' actually managed to retrieve Sam from his cage! Talk about preposterous. Hunters—legacies!—working with a vampire? Who would have thought? Not to mention Sam astral projecting in his condition—now _that_ was incredible. The kid was stronger than he looked—fitting for the Vessel of an archangel. But why would he appear to a Styne instead of his father, or one of his friends? What was the nature of their relationship?

He could worry about that later. For now, he had to restore order to his household—or these hunters might kill every last one of his pets. Perhaps he did underestimate them.

With a long-suffering sigh, he reached for his intercom. As always, if you want something done right, do it yourself. "Attention hunters," he began, transmitting his voice throughout the fortress. "That will be quite enough. Throw down your arms, or I will have no choice but to kill John Winchester. And if you don't believe me, or if you don't care, keep in mind, you can't fight your way out of here. I'm sure by now you've noticed a concerning lack of doors or windows. You can't escape."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "I'm going to cast a navigation spell to guide each of you downstairs to my foyer. Just follow the floor lights, and we can talk like civilized men—perhaps come to an understanding. Or you can stay where you are, and spend the rest of your lives wandering aimlessly through my labyrinthine corridors. It's your call, but let's not kid ourselves. Stubbornness will get you nowhere. I expect to see you in five minutes, or mark my words, John Winchester will pay with his life."

 **SPN**

Alone on the dance floor, with a disco ball sprinkling silver light around the darkened room, Mary and Sam swayed gracefully to Skynyrd's _Simple Man_. Jessica watched from the side, more beautiful than ever in her wedding gown, while John sat next to Dean, heart heavy with despair. This wasn't real—couldn't be real—and when was the last time he had such a blissful dream?

He wanted to stay in this moment forever. Mary was alive. So was Jessica. Sam was happy. Dean was proud. And they were together. What more could he ask for? But it wasn't real.

As they danced, Mary reached up to caress Sam's face, whispering words of tenderness and love. They knew each other. If only. Sam was so much like her, it hurt. Smart. Independent. Compassionate. Strong. They deserved to know each other. They deserved this. It wasn't right. It wasn't real.

John knew about djinns, and he remembered returning to Magnus' lair—a supernatural zoo. It didn't take much to connect the dots. He was trapped in a fantasy—a deep, sound sleep—his greatest wish—just a dream. He couldn't stay.

Magnus was trying to distract him from Sam's captivity. Or kill him. Either way, he had to dig himself out. He didn't want to—the very idea broke his heart. Look at Mary dancing with their baby, all grown up! If he could just wait for the song to end…

But he couldn't. His real children were in danger. They couldn't afford to wait.

How was he going to wake himself up? By dying. When you die in a dream, chances are you wake up—at least according to an old wives' tale. No guarantees. But wasn't it worth the risk? For his children?

Just a few more minutes.

Mary was smiling.

How could he look away?

 **SPN**

When Dean and Rufus arrived in the enormous foyer—with its hardwood floor, a grand staircase and an upper landing that wrapped around the room—they were still bearing weapons, despite their instructions. How could they trust a word Magnus said? From the moment they arrived, monsters had been trying to kill them, so if John really was compromised, chances were he was already dead. If not, Dean knew all too well how the old man felt about surrendering.

Subsequently, when Benny and Jacob appeared with Sam in tow—carried by the Styne like a yoke—Dean compulsively aimed his gun. "Put. Him. Down."

Jacob snarled, brandishing a sword in his left hand.

"One bad guy at a time, Dean," Benny interjected, sidling between the two. "We still need to get outta here, and we could use Jacob's help."

Truth be told, Sam didn't look so good. He was dangling from Jacob's shoulders like a rag doll, barely conscious. What the hell? Lowering his gun, Dean studied his brother with an anxious frown. "How bad is he?"

"Oh, he'll live," came a cordial voice from the top of the stairs. Dean and the others all whipped around to see a sleazy bastard in a dated suit with an obnoxious bow tie. "He just needs to learn the rules."

"You son of a bitch." Dean aimed his gun, but wasn't fast enough.

Magnus hurled some kind of smoke bomb, and as the sandy smog enveloped the would-be rescuers, he chanted, "Shen ti rán shao!"

Suddenly, the grip of Dean's gun burned white-hot. He gasped, unwittingly dropping it as Rufus, Benny, and even Jacob dropped their blades. With a smug smile, Magnus flicked his wrist, and their weapons were all scattered telekinetically across the room. Great. Exactly how were they supposed to contend with glorified witchcraft?

As Magnus slowly descended the stairs, cocksure of himself and savoring every step, Dean cast a sidelong glance at Jacob. His rival seemed torn between holding onto Sam and putting him down to better attack the Master of Spells. At least they shared a common hatred for Magnus, but Dean still didn't trust Jacob. If he saw an opportunity to run off with Sam while the hunters were preoccupied with their new foe, he would undoubtedly take it. Dean couldn't afford to divide his attention, not with Magnus bearing down on them, but neither could he take his eyes off Jacob. This really sucked.

"Now what am I going to do with you lot?" Magnus asked when he reached their level, considering them each in turn. "Killing you quickly would be too kind."

Rufus shuddered. "Oh, you're not gonna monologue, are you? I can't think of anything more nauseating."

Magnus scoffed.

"Seriously, though," Dean snapped. "Where do you get off kidnapping people?"

Magnus met his gaze fervently. "He's Lucifer's Vessel. I'm doing the world a favor."

 _Lucifer's Vessel._

Dean's mind went blank, even as the blood drained out of his face. Lucifer's Vessel? "The hell does that mean?"

Despite everything, Jacob grinned. "What? Little brother didn't tell you?"

There was no mistaking his contempt, and Dean spared him a dirty look. "Shut up!" He glared back at Magnus. "What does that mean?" It had to be Sam's secret—the demon's plans for him—a fate worse than death. He had to know. Lucifer's Vessel? "WHAT DOES IT MEAN!?"

Magnus was frowning at him. "Little brother? Sam didn't say anything about a brother. John never mentioned another son."

"They must be ashamed of him," Jacob teased.

Dean bristled. "No one asked you!"

Jacob shrugged. "I call it like I see it. Sammy doesn't trust you, Dean. You're a hunter, and he's afraid of your prejudice. He's safer with me."

Dean knew all too well Jacob was full of it, but still, his words stung. "I'm going to kill you."

Jacob sneered. "Bring it on, you miserable wretch!"

"Hey!" Magnus impatiently interrupted. "Does this strike either of you as an appropriate time for squabbling?"

"Shut up!" they both yelled at him.

His expression darkened, and he abruptly drew a gun from inside his jacket. "Enough's enough," he said grimly, aiming for Dean's head. "It was a privilege meeting you, boy, but something tells me I should kill you first. Don't take it personally—I really did like your grandfather, and I promise to treat your brother with the utmost care."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _So… I really wasn't expecting this section with Magnus to be so long. It just kind of snowballed. Eh. Oh well. As long as you're all still happy, no big deal, right? ;-)_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	30. Confidence

**SPN**

 **(LeClaire, Iowa … Tuesday, December 8, 2005)**

As the gun discharged, Benny sprang in front of Dean, shielding him from the blast. Rufus went for his back-up gun, but Magnus anticipated his retaliation and shot two rounds in his direction. The hunter bellowed, crashing to the floor in agony. Dean nearly panicked—Rufus! But he was still alive. Magnus wasn't the best marksman, and only struck his shoulder.

Meanwhile, Jacob produced a large knife from under his coat and hurled it with lethal precision at the Master of Spells, but he simply snatched it out of the air. He wasn't going to make this easy for them, and if they didn't come up with a better strategy in the next ten seconds, he was liable to kill them with his magic.

Dean was at a loss. He could only think of how desperately Sam needed protection, and how vulnerable he looked in Jacob's clutches. He shouldn't even be here! He should be safe at Stanford, pursuing a normal life with Jessica. Dean was wrong—selfish—to resent him for running away, and if he died now, he would never have a chance to make things right.

"You know," Magnus said, mildly frustrated. "If you would all just hold still, this doesn't have to hurt. Much."

A sudden flutter of activity caught Dean's attention. Raising his eyes, he saw his dad leaning over the balustrade of the upper landing with a gun aimed directly at the back of Magnus' head. He didn't hesitate—refusing to give away his position—but fired with the unflinching resolve of a vengeful father. Magnus was dead before he hit the ground.

Without stopping for breath, John turned to home in on Jacob, much to the Styne's disgust.

"If you shoot me now," he warned the hunter, "you forfeit my compass. You'll have to find some other way to locate the Book of the Damned, and I promise, Lilibet won't make it easy." He curled his lip and met Dean's gaze. "I hate to say it, but we still need each other. Sam is Lucifer's vessel—basically, his meat suit." Dean blanched while Jacob nodded. "That's right. If you think I'm bad news, I'm nothing compared to Satan. If he crawls outta the pit, you better believe he'll do whatever is necessary to ride Sam for the rest of time. The boy will be trapped in his own body, with no one for company but the greatest evil in the universe. We have to stop it, at any cost, for Sam's sake."

Dean could hardly believe what he was hearing. Not only were angels real—a revelation he resented—but Lucifer as well? There weren't words to express his alarm—the very thought made him sweat. How could Lucifer be real? Angels were one thing—plenty of cultures had angel lore—but specifically, Lucifer? What did that mean about God? If God actually existed, why would he allow such bullshit? Why would he create monsters? Where was the benevolence he claimed? The love, and mercy, and all that? Why would he let demons kill his mom? Why would he let them terrorize his brother? Sam didn't deserve this crap, and Dean would do anything—anything!—to take his place.

As he processed this horrific nightmare, John made his way down the staircase, gun still aimed at Jacob. "I'm not in the mood for games. If you're serious about extending our allegiance, fine. But you have to demonstrate your sincerity. Give Sam to the vampire."

Jacob scowled. "And what guarantee do I have that you won't kill me?"

John shrugged. "Apparently, we need you to operate your damn compass. But that's all the guarantee you get." They glared at each other, barely containing their hatred. Even when Jacob slid Sam from his shoulders, handling him with twisted gentleness, he kept his icy gaze locked on the hunter.

Dean wanted to butcher him. He didn't trust the manipulative bastard—it was so tempting to blame him for Sam's predicament—for everything. Jacob wasn't interested in helping them; he was simply buying time to screw them later on down the road. Better to kill him now and get it over with.

Benny seemed to share his apprehension and approached Jacob warily. Sam was completely drained—his head sagged down, and he would have collapsed without his captor's support. Dean briefly wondered if he was conscious, but then he moved his arm and gripped Jacob's coat. When Benny tried to extricate him from the Styne's possession, he actually held on! Granted, he wasn't nearly strong enough to maintain his grasp, and Benny was soon hauling him a safe distance away, but still, Dean never felt such an urge to vomit. He reached for his back-up knife, bracing himself to launch at his rival, but then…

"Stand down, Dean," his father said, anticipating his attack.

It was like a punch to the gut. Dean grimaced, swallowing his aggression with all the discipline he could muster. A string of curses raced through his mind, but orders were orders, and John's voice brooked no argument. God, would this ever end!?

After a tense moment, Rufus grunted. He remained sprawled out on the ground, pressing his hand against his bloody shoulder. "Not to second-guess our priorities here… but would any of you care to fetch me a damn bandage?"

 **SPN**

Once they found a way out of the fortress—thanks in no small part to Jacob's expertise—they quickly returned to the hotel where Bobby and Cyrus were waiting for them. Benny transferred Sam over to Dean, who eased him onto a bed, before shuffling their antagonist into a separate room. Jacob wasn't pleased with their lodging arrangements, but he didn't get a say in the matter, and Dean would be damned if he let the son of a bitch stay anywhere near his brother.

While the vampire stood guard, Bobby ushered Rufus into the bathroom where he could double-check the bullet wound, leaving John and Dean to care for Sam. Cyrus had the good sense to watch from the corner—he meant well, but considering the circumstances, neither Winchester had the patience to deal with him. Together, they discreetly stripped Sam out of the black tunic and trousers that Magnus dressed him in. Not only did they despise the clothing, but John wanted to check Sam for injuries.

They worked in silence, occasionally trading grim looks. There was so much Dean wanted to ask the old man. Magnus made it sound like he was holding John hostage. Was he telling the truth? If so, was John all right? How did he escape? Judging by his dad's expression, Dean figured it was painful.

What about Sam and Lucifer? Oh, God… Lucifer!? Why did it have to be Lucifer? Why did it have to be Sam? And how could they keep such a secret from him? Didn't Dean have a right to know what they were up against? How could he protect his brother if he didn't understand the danger? Lucifer!? LUCIFER!?

Of course, Dean had to control his temper. Despite his debilitation, Sam was still psychic. Even on the verge of passing out, he could probably sense Dean's turmoil, and that was the last thing he needed. Dean's first priority was rebuilding his mental defenses. Then, when he and his father were alone, he could demand a full explanation—and hopefully, the old man would humor him.

"There's not a scratch on the kid," John eventually said, keeping his voice down while covering Sam with the blanket. "I don't know what Magnus did to him, but it must have been supernatural."

Damn. Dean knew all too well what it meant to be tortured by evil spell-casters. His fingers tingled at the memory of those Nazis breaking them and healing them and breaking them again, over and over and over. Did Magnus treat Sam to similar abuse? Dean clenched his fists. He stepped away from the bed and started pacing the room. Suddenly, he turned and angrily swiped a desk lamp onto the floor, making Cyrus jump. Bobby and Rufus peeked out of the bathroom while John sighed.

"What are we going to do?" Dean finally asked. "We have to do something! I can't just sit here!" Even after the bloodbath at the 'zoo,' he was still bursting at the seams, desperate to kill something, if only to vent.

John nodded. "You're right. We need to weigh our options." He met Bobby's gaze. "You'll keep an eye on Sam?"

Bobby scoffed. "You really need to ask?"

"Just don't get jumped by another demon."

Dean flinched at his father's tactlessness. Rufus looked torn between shame and fury, but Bobby—accustomed to John's attitude, especially when his boys were suffering—let the comment slide with a simple, "Bite me."

After brushing some of the hair from Sam's face, John climbed to his feet and glanced at Dean. "Let's go."

 **SPN**

Needless to say, Jacob shared Dean's restlessness. During the year he spent in prison, he thought he learned to cope with confinement. His cell became his sanctuary where he could mourn the loss of his family, discipline his mind, strengthen his body, and steel himself for vengeance. He never doubted he would escape, and he yearned for the day he would bring John and Dean to justice for slaughtering his father, his brother Eldon, and countless other relatives.

If someone told him then that he'd soon be working alongside the hunters, he would have laughed, and he would have killed the bastard for simply suggesting something so absurd. But here he was. So much had changed, and if Jacob ever encountered his father again—in this life or the next—he would have a lot to answer for.

Sammy. It was all for Sammy.

Jacob found himself trembling from separation anxiety. His little brother was just one room over, helpless, in need of his care. Why was he cooperating with the Winchesters? Why!? When he found Sam inside that fortress, he told himself he would kill anyone who tried taking him away. To hell with John and Dean! So why did he put up with their insolence?

Because they outnumbered him, and he would be no good to Sam if they shot him to death. He had to be smart. Calculating. He could afford to wait, if it meant surviving long enough to stab his enemies in the back. Make no mistake, they would pay for their crimes! Slowly and exquisitely.

Then, at long last, Jacob would rescue Sam and Cyrus. Whether they liked it or not, they would be a family again. He could barely contain his anticipation.

Suddenly, the door opened. John, Dean, and the vampire all stepped into the room, wearing harsh expressions.

"How's Sam?" Jacob asked.

"About the same," John replied evenly. "He's resting, and best not be disturbed."

"You should let me look at him. I know a thing or two about spell work. If Sinclair used magic on him, I'm the most qualified to help."

Dean actually laughed, albeit scornfully. "No chance in hell."

Jacob scowled. "You're not going to put our rivalry ahead of his well-being, are you?"

"Keeping you from Sam is necessary for his well-being!"

"That's enough, Dean," John interjected. "We're not here to fight." He frowned at Jacob. "I will be taking Sam to a colleague I trust who can evaluate his condition. If she thinks your expertise could be beneficial, I will call you. But until that happens, I need you and Benny to concentrate on locating Elizabeth."

Jacob eyed the vampire disdainfully. "You can't be serious."

"I know how Sam thinks," John countered. "And he won't thank us for putting his health above the mission—not when the stakes are this high. His recovery will go much faster and smoother if he knows you're out there making progress."

"And you trust me not to kill him?" Jacob asked, nodding at the vampire.

Benny smirked. "I'd like to see you try."

"He's going to make sure you don't betray us," John explained. "Since we're depending on you and all."

"Oh, I appreciate your confidence."

John ignored his sarcasm. "When you find your cousin, shadow her. Don't try to attack. We're going to wait for the solstice to make our move."

Jacob cocked his head. "That's cutting it rather close, don't you think?"

"Unfortunately, it's the best strategy we have," John replied. "I mean, if Elizabeth's ritual can free Lucifer, don't you think Azazel will be there to witness it? Until he dies, this will never end. Now, for once, we know where and when to expect him, so let's take advantage of it."

Jacob hesitated, considering his plan. "I admit, it could work. Are you sure you can kill the demon?"

"We have an angel blade. If that doesn't do the trick, nothing will."

"And then?" Jacob asked. "Assuming we survive?"

"You're next on our list."

Jacob nodded. "Just making sure we understand each other."

 **SPN**

 **(Missouri … Thursday, December 10, 2005)**

Between the torture and the astral projection, Sam was thoroughly depleted; he spent the next day and a half floating in and out of consciousness. His rescue felt like a dream. Jacob and Benny working together? Magnus exposing his secret to Dean? Shooting Rufus? Executed by John? None of it made sense. It had to be a dream! A part of Sam hoped it was a dream. He couldn't bear the possibility of Dean knowing the truth. What must he think of him?

But when Sam finally came to, he was no longer in a cage. Instead, he was alone in a strange bedroom, dressed in sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Opening his mind, he sensed Pamela, his dad, Dean, Bobby, Rufus, and Cyrus—they were eating lunch downstairs. No sign of Jacob or Benny. He was safe—for once—and he breathed a sigh of relief.

 _Hello, Grumpy,_ Pamela reached out to him. _About time you woke up._

Sam couldn't find the words to answer, but he didn't try to hide his emotions—his gratitude mixed with ongoing sorrow and fear—not to mention his hunger. God, he was starving.

 _I'm not surprised,_ Pamela told him. _Don't try to move. I'll send your brother up with some chicken noodle soup._

 _Thank you._

Sam didn't have long to wait. Naturally, the moment Dean heard the news, he was scrambling to fill a dish so he could scurry upstairs. He dashed into the room, almost frantic. "Sammy!?"

"Hey, Dean…" Sam forced a weak smile, struggling to sit up. Dean promptly dropped the dish on the bedside table and wrapped his brother in his arms. Sam flushed, unprepared for such concern, but when the shock wore off, he returned the embrace. "I'm sorry…"

Dean pulled back to stare at him. "What are you apologizing for?"

Sam vaguely recalled the confrontation in the fortress. Jacob said something to Dean. What was it?

 _They must be ashamed of him… Sammy doesn't trust you, Dean. You're a hunter, and he's afraid of your prejudice…_

"I trust you, Dean," he whispered, making his brother sigh.

"I know you do. And don't worry. We have a plan to end all this. Can't say it's a good plan, but if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna make sure the devil stays where he is, burning in hell for the rest of eternity. I promise."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I'm a little nervous about this chapter. I know the allegiance between Jacob and the Winchesters is hanging by a thread, and I really hope it's still believable. Let me know what you think._

 _ **Please Review!**_


	31. Flight Risk

_**Author's Note:**_ _There comes a point when you tell yourself, "I need to wrap this up." But then, the characters take on lives of their own, and they're quick to respond, "We're not letting you!" So that's basically this chapter. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

 **(Missouri … Friday, December 11, 2005)**

It was after midnight on Friday morning, and Rufus couldn't sleep—his shoulder ached too much, and his heart was heavy with bitterness and shame. God, he was getting old. First, he let a demon possess him. He was helpless to stop a pack of Nazis from kidnapping and torturing two of the finest men he knew. And then, he let some asshole shoot him! When did he become such a liability?

Not wanting to wake Bobby, Dean, or Cyrus, who were camped out in Pamela's living room, he quietly ventured into the backyard. It was a cold night, but since Rufus had acclimated to winters in Vermont, he found the temperature refreshing. Better enjoy it while it lasts—if their enemies sparked the apocalypse, it would be Hell on Earth. A blazing inferno.

"Care for a drink?"

Rufus jumped at the sound of John's voice. He wasn't looking for company, and did not appreciate finding his fellow hunter in a lawn chair with a six pack at his feet. "If it ain't a Johnnie Walker, I'll pass."

The younger man chuckled mirthlessly. "Suit yourself." He took a swig from the bottle in his hand, and Rufus got the distinct impression he was brooding. Hard to tell in the dark, but he certainly wasn't out here celebrating.

Against his better judgment, Rufus claimed the seat next to John. "Something on your mind?"

For a long, drawn-out moment, he didn't answer, and honestly, why should he? Rufus wasn't his friend—Bobby was, and even that friendship was turbulent at best. Hunters weren't known for their stable relationships. But then John said, "My family's cursed, Rufus. Evil's been stalking my children their entire lives. Real evil. And it keeps getting worse and worse."

Yeah, no kidding. Sam was Lucifer's vessel. When Sinclair spilled the beans—when Jacob explained what it meant—Rufus couldn't help but think it might be merciful to put the kid out of his misery. Death was preferable to possession. But Rufus would never act on such a thought. Sam was someone's child. Hell, he was practically Bobby's child. And Rufus understood all too well what losing a child could do to a man. He wouldn't wish that on anyone.

"Your boys are strong, Winchester. They'll get by."

Sam was clearly traumatized, and Dean was an aggressive time bomb, but considering the circumstances, who wouldn't be? In fact, Rufus admired how well they were coping with all they had suffered.

John sighed. "You know, during the rescue mission in the zoo, I was trapped by a djinn." Rufus raised his eyebrows. That didn't sound good. John took another sip of his drink before continuing. "What I saw… I knew exactly what it was. An illusion. A lie. But I let my emotions cloud my judgment. I'm a hunter—a marine! It shouldn't have taken so long for me to snap out of it—all I needed was a broken wine bottle—a shard of glass…" He shuddered. "In the time it took me to wake up, dispatch the djinn, and track you guys to the foyer, Magnus could have killed Dean. Thank God a few hours in Slumberland are only minutes in reality! Or Dean…" He gulped down more beer. "The point is, I can't focus around my family. I'm too easily distracted."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Rufus advised. "We all make mistakes. Hell, I was just possessed by a demon!"

John grunted. "When I lost Mary, I thought about… I almost…" He trailed off, but Rufus understood. He vividly recalled the despair he felt in the aftermath of Omaha. The hopelessness, and the temptation to stop the pain. Forever.

"Oh, I know."

"If I didn't have my boys…"

"I know."

"Protecting them is all I care about."

"So protect them!"

John paused, growing pensive, and Rufus didn't mind the momentary silence. It gave him a chance to curb his own turmoil. But then John said, "I can't bring them on this hunt. It's too dangerous."

"They're invested," Rufus countered. "How do you plan to stop them?"

Another long pause. "I'll find a way. Even if I have to lock them down, I'm not letting them anywhere near Azazel or those damn Stynes. Will you help me?"

Rufus hesitated—pissing off Dean didn't strike him as a good idea, and this would definitely piss the kid off. Besides, their enemies were fearsome, and the stakes were high. Could they really afford to bench a hunter in his prime?

Why the hell not? Rufus learned his lesson back in Omaha—some people were too precious to lose, and after everything he lost, he'd be damned if he let John risk his children. "I'll help you. Just tell me what you need."

 **SPN**

With the bedroom lights turned off, Sam was inconspicuously watching the older hunters from the second-story window. He didn't mean to eavesdrop, but the more his father drank, the less control he had over his thoughts and feelings. Sam sensed his overprotectiveness, and it filled him with dread.

Lock them down? Like… in a cage? He wouldn't… Would he? Sam shivered, thinking back to Elizabeth's wedding night… when Jessica was killed… John, Dean, and several other hunters came to rescue Sam from the Stynes' safe house, but he refused to leave without Cyrus. He begged to go back for Cyrus. But did John listen? No. Of course not. He ordered Dean to drag Sam out, kicking and screaming, because 'father knows best.' If he thought for a moment it was in their interest to do something, he wouldn't hesitate. Even if it meant locking them in a cage. Like Magnus. Like Jacob.

Panicking, Sam scrambled to his suitcase, which someone brought up from the car before his recovery. He quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a blue flannel shirt. He put on his shoes and grabbed his coat, making sure the hex bag was still tucked safely in his pocket so he could hide from demons and locator spells. As he slipped his fire agate necklace over his head, he wondered whether or not to wake his brother. Dean would ask questions—he might even confront their dad, and that would be the end of it. If John ordered Dean to take a knee, he would listen.

What about Cyrus? No… Cyrus would be safer with Pamela—at least she wasn't wanted by the devil! Trembling, Sam tasted bile in his throat. Everyone he loved would be safer without him.

 _Sam?_ From the master bedroom, Pamela was starting to stir, unable to ignore his distress.

 _I'm_ _fine,_ he assured her. _It was just a nightmare. I_ _'m fine. Go back to sleep._

If she had been fully conscious, she would have recognized his deception, but somehow, Sam managed to sedate her, and she settled back down.

Crap. He wasn't developing powers of suggestion, was he? Sam winced, overwhelmed with self-loathing. He had to get out of here! Before his dad locked him away, 'for his own protection.' Why did everyone have to restrain him? It was suffocating! He just wanted his life back.

As stealthily as possible, he tiptoed into the hall and down the stairs. Thankfully, Pamela had plugged in a few nightlights, in case her guests needed to find the bathroom or something. Sam had to find his dad's luggage. He had to 'borrow' some of the cash Bela gave them for exorcizing that demon, and it wouldn't hurt to have some weapons.

Taking extra care not to disturb Dean, Cyrus, or Bobby, Sam stole into the living room. When he caught sight of his dad's familiar black duffel, he didn't bother opening it. He just grabbed the whole bag and made his way to the front of the house, where he could riffle through it without rousing the others.

Pocketing a decent amount of money and a combat knife, Sam tried not to think about how angry his dad would be at him for running away. Again. Not to mention how worried Dean would be. Sam should leave a note to explain why he disappeared… But there wasn't time! John and Rufus were still very much awake in the backyard, and they might walk in on him. Sam had to hurry. Once he covered enough ground, he would find a payphone.

But until then, he couldn't waste a single moment.

 **SPN**

After his conversation with Sam the day before, Dean was so relieved by the kid's improvement that all his adrenaline drained out of him. The subsequent fatigue left him sprawled out on Pamela's couch, enjoying the best sleep he had in over a week. Hours later, when he perceived someone anxiously shaking his arm, he was so relaxed, he didn't even reach for his knife.

"Dean! Dean, wake up!"

The whisper belonged to a nervous child. Eyes fluttering open, Dean observed a shrimpy little boy with ill-fitting glasses. Cyrus. And judging from his terrified expression, something was drastically wrong.

Dean tensed, sitting up while scanning the room. No signs of trouble. Bobby was passed out on a recliner, Rufus was slumped over the coffee table with his head buried in his arms, and John was sleeping in the corner with his back against the wall. According to the mantel clock, it was just after six in the morning, and nothing seemed out of place. So what had Cyrus in a tizzy?

He shot the kid a perplexed look, and Cyrus bit his lip. Normally, Dean loathed such timidity—just spit it out!—but he couldn't blame the kid for his reservations, considering his family situation. Honestly, Dean doubted he would ever be comfortable around the hunters—aside from Sam, his only friend.

Suddenly, Dean's heart skipped a beat. Sam! What else would frighten the kid?

Scrambling off the couch, Dean barreled into the hallway and up the stairs. He didn't stop until he was standing in his brother's empty bedroom, staring at his brother's empty bed. Son of a bitch!

"Sammy?" He raced back into the hallway. "SAM!?"

 **SPN**

It only took a minute to wake everyone up, and then, they spent the next half hour searching the house from top to bottom. Fortunately, they found no evidence of another kidnapping—no signs of a break-in, no signs of a struggle, and no signs of sulfur. In fact, from what they could tell, Sam more than likely took off on his own—he changed his clothes, donned a pair of shoes, and filched money from John's duffel bag. But why?

"Did you sense anything?" John asked Pamela in alarm.

She was obviously shaken. "I thought… Something spooked him in the middle of the night, but he claimed it was just a nightmare. He said to go back to sleep."

Dean groaned, thinking of Lost Creek, Colorado. "He's done this before." That caught everyone's attention, and they all turned to gawk at him. "Last month, when Sam and I were still in hiding, he asked if I would help him hunt the demon. I said no—it was too dangerous. So in the middle of the night, while he thought I was sleeping, he tried running away to finish the job himself. He didn't get very far, but still…"

He braced himself for John's inevitable outrage… But surprisingly, John didn't explode. Rather, his face paled, and he sank into a chair.

Bobby frowned. "But that can't be why he ran away this time. You did tell him we have a plan to kill the demon, didn't you?"

"Of course I did."

"Maybe it's not about killing the demon," Rufus said with an edge to his voice. He glanced nervously at John. "The kid's telepathic. Sounds like he tuned into our conversation last night." John grunted, covering his face with his hands.

Dean blinked. "What conversation?"

"Uh…" Rufus faltered, reluctant to elaborate, and Dean didn't have to be psychic to detect his chagrin.

"John…" Pamela growled. "Explain."

When the old man looked up, Dean barely recognized his expression, wrenched with worry and remorse. What the hell? John was a hunter and a marine! Always confident, always cunning, always in control. It wasn't like him to publicly display such sorrow.

"Last night," John eventually said in a halting voice. "I told Rufus my decision to leave you boys behind." He met Dean's gaze. "I can't bring either of you on this hunt. You might get hurt."

Dean struggled to process this piece of news. "Yeah, we might get hurt. That's part of the job." Suspicion flared inside him, and he bristled angrily. After all, this wasn't just a normal hunt. This was THE hunt. "We're talking about the demon that killed mom. We're talking about the freaking devil! We've been training our whole lives for this. You raised us for this. What makes you think you can stop us now?"

John sighed, shaking his head. "I raised you to fight evil. To protect yourselves and as many people as possible. But I never meant to bring you on this particular hunt. It's too personal, which makes it too dangerous. And trust me, Dean. I can stop you."

Dean caught his breath, torn between shock, confusion, and resent. "How? I'm not a kid anymore."

"By any means necessary."

It all clicked. When Sam took off in Colorado, it wasn't just about hunting the demon. It was about Dean bossing him around. Hell, when he took off for Stanford, it wasn't just about a normal life. It was about freedom. Sam longed for independence—he always had. (That's part of what made his bond with Jacob so disturbing.) He wasn't a mindless grunt; he was a person! When he argued with John, it wasn't just rebellion. It was frustration. A cry for his dad to believe in him, to trust him, to treat him like an adult.

Thanks to the Stynes, and now Magnus, Sam's spirit was crushed. John should be striving to repair him, to build him up, but instead, he was threatening to hold him back, probably against his will. Dean flushed. Was it any wonder Sam ran away?

"Let me ask you something…" Dean glared bitterly at his dad. "How's Sam ever going to distinguish his real family from those damn frauds if we treat him the exact same way?"

John flinched, and Dean scowled, turning abruptly to stride towards the front door.

"Where are you going?" Bobby called after him.

"To find my brother!"

 **SPN**

Dean couldn't remember the last time he felt so angry at his dad. John was his hero, his anchor, and everything he ever wanted to be. Sure, he wasn't perfect, but he did his best, and when it came to Sam's safety, Dean trusted no one else but Bobby. So how could this happen?

The longer he drove, the more he tried defending the old man. To be fair, Sam was a flight risk from the moment they rescued him from Atlanta. He tried to run before, and it was only a matter of time until he tried again. They dropped their guards after collecting Cyrus, but they should have known better. Sam was understandably skittish, and blaming John wouldn't help anyone.

But that didn't change how Dean felt. He was pissed, and he would give anything to punch his father in the face.

Eventually, he came up to a convenience store with a gas station. Glancing at the Impala's fuel gauge, he pulled over and climbed outside. The chances of Sam passing this way were probably low, but it wouldn't hurt to ask, and he needed to fill his tank. As calmly as possible, he made his way inside the store to pay with cash, and was pleased to find an attractive young woman at the register. (Whether Sam realized it or not, the ladies always noticed him.)

"Good morning," she said cheerfully as he sauntered forward. Her name tag labeled her as Katie.

"Morning, Katie." He mustered up his friendliest smile. "I wonder if you could help me with something. I seem to have lost track of my brother."

Before he could elaborate, someone entered the store behind him, and a chill ran down his spine. His blood turned to ice, and every instinct warned him to grab the girl and run. Instead, he turned to stare at a man the size of frigging Hercules, dressed in ripped jeans and a military field jacket. His eyes—horrifically—were yellow.

"Hiya Dean," he said with a smirk. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to catch you alone."

 **SPN**

 _ **Don**_ _ **'t Forget to Review!**_


	32. The Vessel

_**Author's Note:**_ _I've been so mean to Sam, I thought Dean should have a turn. Just to be fair. Hope you enjoy! :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Missouri … Friday, December 11, 2005)**

Without a second thought, Dean drew his gun and aimed it at the demon who killed his mom. Katie shrieked, scrambling backwards, while Yellow Eyes clucked his tongue.

"Come on, kid. You can't hurt me with that."

He had a point, but Dean didn't care. At least the weapon offered him a semblance of security. He was up against the most dangerous freak on the planet, and it was all he could do to keep from panicking. He needed the reassurance of a gun. "What do you want?"

"Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!" Katie was hyperventilating behind the counter, much to the demon's annoyance. He flicked his wrist, and suddenly her neck snapped.

"NO!" Dean watched in shock as her body crumpled to the floor.

"Well, what do you expect when you make a scene like that?" the demon lightly chastised, as if he'd done nothing wrong. Dean stared at him in pure hatred, a breath away from squeezing the trigger. Detecting his hostility, Azazel took preemptive measures, telekinetically yanking the gun from his hand while pinning him to the side of the counter. Dean gasped, straining against the invisible force that rendered him helpless as Yellow Eyes bore down on him.

"I gotta say, big brother, it never occurred to me that you of all people would ever warrant my attention." He reached out and roughly grabbed Dean's jaw, making the hunter squirm. "But here we are. Elizabeth reckons you're a good candidate for the ritual sacrifice."

Dean's heart stopped, and the demon grinned.

"That's right," he taunted, squeezing Dean's jaw hard enough to elicit a groan. "We're busting out the big boss, and we're breaking a lot of rules along the way. But magic of this caliber comes with a hefty price, and we need someone to pick up the tab. Someone special. Worthy."

"Well, then you got the wrong guy," Dean objected, doing his best to hide his fear. It wasn't the first time his enemies threatened to sacrifice him—after all, the Stynes required legacies for their reincarnation ritual—but this was different. Azazel was far more intimidating than the Stynes, and it wasn't just Dean's life at stake. It was the entire world! "There's nothing special about me."

"See, that's what I thought." The demon playfully jerked Dean's head. "But Elizabeth made a compelling case on your behalf. Naturally, she needs a closer look at your palm to confirm her theory, but it's so poetic, I hope she's right."

Dean was never a fan of poetry, and he couldn't begin to fathom what Azazel was talking about. He wasn't special! But try telling that to a deranged lunatic. "You better kill me now."

"Or what?" the demon mocked. "You'll send me straight to Hell? I'd like to see you try." He chuckled, releasing Dean's jaw to pat his cheek. "Now, what do you say we take a little road trip? I'll drive."

 **SPN**

 **(Six Hours Earlier)**

After sneaking out of the house, Sam proceeded down the street, looking for an 'available' car. Unlike some hunters, he found the idea of theft very unsettling, but these were desperate times, and he had to put some distance between himself and his father. Eventually, he found a Buick LaCrosse parked in the driveway of a nice house with plenty of Christmas decorations. A quick psychic reading assured Sam the owners were not riddled with financial worries, so he followed his brother's instructions on breaking into vehicles.

By three-thirty in the morning, he found himself in the parking lot of a St. Louis bus station. He paid with cash for a ticket to Pittsburgh and plopped down on a bench to wait for departure—he had two hours. Cold and hungry, he considered walking to a nearby fast-food joint, open 24/7, but he was still recovering from his torture, and he was starting to shake from exhaustion.

When the bus arrived, Sam boarded along with two dozen other people—major cities always had their share of early risers. He took an empty seat, and was grateful when no one joined him—it was already a chore trying to block out all their thoughts and feelings. None of these strangers were skilled at guarding their minds, and Sam didn't want to intrude on any of them.

A bus ride to Pittsburgh would take over thirteen hours, so they would arrive around seven in the evening. Just in time for dinner. Leaning against the window, Sam closed his eyes and yearned for sleep.

 **SPN**

 **(Missouri … Friday, December 11, 2005)**

Shortly after Dean left to search for Sam, a police cruiser appeared down the street, and Pamela, who knew all her neighbors, went to check it out. Meanwhile, John called Benny and explained the situation, warning him to keep an eye out for the kid in case he tried meeting up with Jacob.

By now, Sam was undoubtedly a needle in a haystack—it would be a miracle if Dean found him—but his main objective was still the same. Stop the apocalypse. He was bound to make an attempt on Elizabeth, and possibly the demon, which John feared would be disastrous. But at least they knew where he was going. More or less.

"Looks like your boy stole Laura Jenkins' car," Pamela said when she returned. "He could be anywhere by now."

"Terrific," Bobby grumbled.

John met his old friend's gaze. "You want to call Dean and let him know? He's not going to pick up for me."

"Yeah," Bobby retorted. "You got that right." He pulled out his phone and John sighed.

He couldn't blame the boys for being upset, but they were his children, and he wasn't supposed to please them. He was supposed to protect them. He didn't regret his decisions, but he should have been more careful—especially with Sam. His youngest had a history of running away, and considering his current condition, he was more vulnerable now than ever. They had to get him back.

"Well," Bobby said after thirty seconds, lowering his phone. "Dean's not answering me either." He glared at John in disapproval. "I hope you're happy, Winchester. You've managed to drive 'em both off this time. That's gotta be a record for you."

"Oh, knock it off," Rufus snapped impatiently. "Arguing's not gonna help, Bobby."

"It sure as hell beats condoning your behavior! I mean, for Christ's sake, those boys are mighty fine hunters, and they deserve our respect. We can't just treat them like children!"

"They're my children," John countered furiously. "What gives you the right to criticize?"

Bobby scoffed. "Are you kidding? How many times did you dump them on my doorstep? They're your kids, but I would give my life for them, and I think I've earned the right to criticize!"

John squared off against him, but before the tension could escalate, Pamela sidled between them.

"If you idiots aren't careful," she growled, "you'll be the ones on lockdown, I swear to God."

Mustering some self-restraint, John took a calming breath and walked away. As he paced around the house, he happened to glimpse the Styne pipsqueak curled up in the corner with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. His eyes were pink and puffy, and his cheeks were wet with tears. John paused to stare at him, stricken by his anguish.

Sam made it clear how he felt about Cyrus. When they rescued him from the Stynes' safe house in Atlanta, they were forced to drag him away from the child, and Sam was obviously devastated by the separation. He would never voluntarily abandon his young friend. So why didn't he take Cyrus with him?

Stupid question. Cyrus wouldn't be safe with Sam. He was much safer with Pamela. But still, it occurred to John how difficult that decision must have been for Sam. He loved the boy—probably too much, considering the boy's family. What was going on in his head last night? Was he simply indignant that his father would bench him, as John hoped? Or was there more to it?

" _Let me ask you something…"_ Dean's question echoed in his memory. _"How's Sam ever going to distinguish his real family from those damn frauds if we treat him the exact same way?"_

Was Dean right? Did Sam bolt out of fear? John dreaded that possibility—he could barely bring himself to consider it. But now, staring down at Cyrus, he realized it was a possibility he could no longer ignore.

His baby boy feared him.

When did that happen? And how could he make amends?

 **SPN**

The next thing Dean knew, he was sitting on the altar steps of a deserted sanctuary with his back pressed against the holy table. Shadows filled the room—the only light came from the stained glass windows, which were shrouded by cobwebs. The stone walls were lined with bronze candelabras, but the candle flames had been snuffed out a long time ago, after dripping white wax onto the marble floor. Everything was cold and dusty. The wooden pews were dark and austere. The ambiance was sinister and perverse. Pastor Jim would be appalled.

Cursing under his breath, Dean struggled to get up, but the same demonic force from the convenience store was pinning him down. He grunted, straining impotently against it, as Azazel appeared in his line of sight.

"Mmm…" The demon basked in his surroundings with a nostalgic smile. "St. Mary's Convent. I haven't been here in, oh, thirty-three years." He sneered at his captive. "Do you have any idea where we are? How marvelous it is?" Dean didn't dignify him with a response, but his silence only amused the demon, who leaned over him. "We're on the very threshold of the Cage, Dean. My father's Cage. It's going to open here, he's going to rise here, and he's going to walk the Earth again. Can you feel it?"

Dean spat in his face.

Bristling, Azazel stepped back and shook his head, wiping his cheek. "I like your moxie, kid. You remind me of your mother."

Dean flushed as hatred dispelled fear. "You should know we're going to kill you. Understand? We're not just sending you back to Hell. We're going to KILL you."

The demon chuckled, but didn't have time to counter before footsteps warned them of Elizabeth's arrival. She marched into the sanctuary, wearing boots, jeans, and a pink top with a cowl neck. Over her shoulder, she carried a large satchel, and in her hand, she clutched a marble-sized rose quartz crystal. At the sight of Dean, she stopped short, gaping in astonishment.

"You actually found him!" She glanced over at the demon, surprise mixing with approval. "How?"

It was a fair question. The Winchesters had been using hex bags for over a year to cover their tracks, and Elizabeth lacked the resources of her cousin—in particular, Shax. Azazel, however…

"Oh, I've been in contact with your tattoo artist," he nonchalantly explained. "As it turns out, he can stalk his customers, and thanks to his intelligence, my spies have been watching the Winchesters for over a week now." He smirked at Dean. "I can tell you exactly where your brother is."

Dean fumed. "You stay the hell away from him!"

Azazel rolled his eyes. "Relax. We're keeping our distance—for now, anyway. Sam's abilities are mushrooming, and he's got a real knack for exorcisms." He clapped his hands, abruptly changing the subject. "So! Shall we get started? I'm dying to learn if Dean's the one."

"One what!?" Dean demanded.

In lieu of answering, Elizabeth dropped her satchel and approached the altar. Dean found himself shrinking back—she was the fortune-telling bitch who started this whole nightmare. When they first met, Dean humored her request to read his palm, never once thinking she might be legitimate, and when she proved herself, he anxiously severed whatever psychic link they shared. Unfortunately, by then, she realized he was a legacy, and she eagerly betrayed his family to the Stynes' patriarch. If that wasn't bad enough, she later identified Sam as Lucifer's vessel, and then, on top of everything else, she shot Dean in the shoulder. Needless to say, he really didn't like her.

"It's good to see you, Dean," she began as she knelt in front of him. "I wish it could be under better circumstances."

Oddly enough, she sounded sincere. "Look…" Dean said, wondering if he could reason with her. "You don't have to go through with this. I mean, how will you and your boyfriend live happily ever after if you kick-start the apocalypse? There has to be another way."

"There's not," she stubbornly replied, reaching for his hand. He fought to keep her from maneuvering it, but with Azazel's assistance, she easily exposed his palm. "I'm sorry, Dean, but the ingredients for the ritual are very specific. We need the vessel of an archangel."

Dean furrowed his brow. "You need Sam?"

"Sam is Lucifer's vessel, that's true," Elizabeth agreed. "But come on. We're not about to sacrifice him. That would ruin everything. No, we need someone else. And luckily, Lucifer has three very impressive brothers. Want to hear my theory? I'm willing to bet angels share a lot in common with their vessels. I think, since you're Sam's brother, you just might be compatible with Michael, or Gabriel, or Raphael."

Stunned, Dean felt a pit in his stomach. "No…"

"Let's find out," she suggested. "When I first read your palm, I barely scratched the surface. This time, I'm going in deep, like I did with Sam."

Azazel made a wry face. "You're not going to throw up again, are you?"

Elizabeth curled her lip at the reminder. "No, I don't think so. I'm stronger than I was a year ago." With that, she turned her attention to Dean's palm, closely scrutinizing his skin—his lines and calluses—even the shapes and sizes of his metacarpals. Dean did everything he could to wrench back his hand, or clench his fist, but the demon's powers wouldn't allow it. Gradually, Elizabeth's eyes glazed over as she sank into a trance.

Hoping to distract her, Dean launched into an angry tirade. "You're an ugly bitch, you know that? Monroe must be real proud of you! No wonder you can't save your boyfriend! You're a whore, and whores don't deserve fairytale endings! Do you actually think Doc Benton wants you? He's disgusted by you!"

Sure enough, Elizabeth stiffened, and her cheeks turned red. She was starting to lose focus, but suddenly, before she completely snapped out of it, Azazel sat next to Dean and planted his hand firmly over his captive's mouth.

"Ssshhh," he cooed as Dean squirmed, helpless to dislodge the bastard. Elizabeth settled back into her trance, and as she explored his so-called 'fate,' Dean could only watch.

Finally, after a good ten minutes, Elizabeth released him. By then, Dean was panting heavily, smothered by the demon's proximity.

"I was right," she said, climbing to her feet with a triumphant smile. Dean's shoulders sagged at the certainty in her voice. "He's definitely a vessel. Michael's vessel."

"Lucky you," Azazel teased, ruffling Dean's hair. Standing back up, he followed Elizabeth away from the altar. "So what's next on the agenda? We don't have much time left. Just over a week."

Elizabeth retrieved her satchel and pulled out a spiral notebook. Flipping to the middle, she tore out a page and offered it to her accomplice. "Here's everything we still need. Some of it's rare, but not nearly as rare as Michael's vessel. I trust you can handle it."

Azazel took the page with a smirk. "And what about him?" he asked, nodding at Dean. "If I leave him here with you, can I trust you to handle him? He's a feisty one."

She paused, contemplating the question while regarding the prisoner. After a beat, she spoke a brief incantation in a strange language. Two long chains materialized on either side of Dean, and before he could comprehend their appearance, the manacles snapped around his wrists. The chains pulled, stretching his arms out brutally wide. Pain flared through his taut muscles, and he scowled, straining for relief as the chains anchored themselves to the right and left sides of the marble altar. "Son of a…" He grunted, bucking his legs anxiously as he struggled to free himself.

"Those chains are strong," Elizabeth assured him. "And they don't have locks, so they can't be picked. I'm sorry, Dean, but you're not going anywhere."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	33. In the Wind

**SPN**

 **(Missouri … Friday, December 11, 2005)**

Since joining forces back in November, the group of hunters had been so focused on killing Jacob and stopping the apocalypse that Bobby actually forgot how infuriating John could be. The way he treated those boys! And where did Rufus get off siding with the bastard!? Overwhelmed with frustration, Bobby was all too eager to obey Pamela when she tossed him her car keys and told him to go out and clear his head. They could all use some breathing space, and so he ventured through the neighborhood with no clear destination in mind.

Unfortunately, it seemed the universe was conspiring to upset him. All too soon, he came across a small convenience store where he noticed the Impala parked near five cop cars with their beacons flashing. Balls!

Slamming on his brakes, Bobby gave the scene a closer look. When he observed three guys securing the perimeter with yellow tape, his blood ran cold. A crime had recently been committed here—a major crime—and Dean was nowhere in sight. Bobby had to do something—had to investigate! He dug into his pockets, frantically checking his fake badges. Which ones did he have on hand? FBI… Agent Willis.

Flustered, anxious, and decidedly reckless, Bobby climbed out of the car and rushed forward. When the perimeter cops caught sight of him, one hastened to intercept him.

"Sir, I need you to stay back!"

Bobby whipped open his badge. "I'm FBI. That car belongs to my partner. We've been working undercover for three weeks now… got separated… I haven't been able to find him. Where is he?"

The cop—a short guy around Dean's age—did a double take, staring at the badge with a very pale face. He must be new at this. "We… We didn't find any feds… Just the cashier." He tried to meet Bobby's gaze, but couldn't maintain eye contact. "We're still not sure what happened. The security camera was apparently tampered with."

Bobby scowled. "Out of my way!" He stormed past the cop with all the authority he could muster. What the hell happened here? And what did the cop mean, they only found the cashier? Where was Dean!?

The first thing to greet him as he encroached on the crime scene was the odious smell of sulfur—it filled the store, reeking like rotten eggs. Bobby stopped short, breaking out in a cold sweat. Demons!

Dean must have been taken by demons!

 **SPN**

Exhausted, but restless, Sam spent the morning propped against the window, trying to sleep, but unable to quiet his thoughts. The last time he found himself traveling cross country on a bus, he was on his way to Stanford, and the memories were cruel. Arguing with his dad, meeting Jessica, tasting freedom, only for Jacob to rip it all away. But Sam couldn't blame Jacob—at least, not entirely—as much as he wanted to. It was the yellow-eyed demon… Azazel… He was the real threat. Jacob had only been stalking Sam for fifteen months. The demon, on the other hand, had been stalking him his entire life!

Sam shuddered, realizing how unprepared he was. In his hurry to escape, he failed to pack his laptop, salt, or holy water. His phone was never replaced after Jacob stole it, and he didn't have any weapons powerful enough to hurt Azazel—John carried the angel blade on him at all times now. How was Sam going to challenge the demon when he was virtually defenseless? Damn.

To make things worse, if he reached out to his family, he would be in a world of trouble. John was already planning to lock him up, and by running away, Sam was undoubtedly reinforcing his motivation. In fact, by running away, he might have relinquished any potential support the others might have offered. They would (mistakenly) assume he was under Jacob's influence, and they would agree with John that he required a time out.

Jacob… Jacob wouldn't let John lock Sam up. After all, he saved Sam from Magnus, didn't he? He'd be more than happy to help Sam elude his father. Plus, he had that compass to track down Elizabeth. If they could find her before the solstice, if they could just convince her not to perform the ritual, they could eliminate the immediate threat. They might miss out on an opportunity to kill the demon, but so what? If they stopped Elizabeth, they would buy themselves some time. They would push back the demon's plans, and they could figure the rest out later.

Suddenly, as Sam considered all this, a sharp pain blossomed between his eyes. He grimaced, clutching his head. What the hell? His vision blurred, and sparkling lights danced in front of him. The pain intensified, and he doubled over, whimpering pathetically.

The next thing he knew, he was gazing into a sinister sanctuary. It was dark, and the only illumination came from countless dripping candles. Much to Sam's dismay, Dean was sitting on the steps at the base of a marble altar with his arms chained out to his sides. His shirt had been removed, and his upper body was covered with arcane symbols. A gag filled his mouth, and he thrashed wildly against his restraints.

Directly across from him, on the sanctuary floor, the yellow-eyed demon was carefully arranging six linen-lined wicker baskets, each containing a sleeping baby. Elizabeth—dressed for the occasion in a red satin gown—stood behind the altar, reading from an ancient tome that could only be the Book of the Damned.

As she came to a break in her incantation, she nodded at the demon. He brandished a knife and promptly butchered the first baby. Dean roared furiously, but helplessly, kicking his legs in protest. The demon winked at him and butchered the second baby.

As he continued the carnage, Elizabeth ambled around the altar and knelt next to Dean. He shied away from her, but had nowhere to go. She leaned over him and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then, she glanced over her shoulder and watched Azazel finish his job. When all six of his victims were dead, he reverently approached the altar and offered her the knife. Plucking it from his hand, Elizabeth spoke the final words of the ritual and stabbed Dean in the heart.

"NNNOOOO!"

Sam jerked back to reality, where he found himself writhing on the floor in the aisle of the bus, drenched in sweat. Three men were attempting to hold him still, to keep him from banging his head, but their proximity unnerved him. "LET ME GO!"

Several voices spoke at once.

"It's okay! It's gonna be okay!"

"Just try to calm down!"

"Help is coming! You're gonna be all right, I promise!"

The driver had pulled off to the side of the road, and the passengers were all watching in alarm. Some were genuinely scared—they didn't know if he was crazy or dangerous—but others were genuinely concerned. One girl in particular was radiating compassion. She must have been twenty years old, obviously underweight, with red hair that spilled over her small shoulders. Sam couldn't help but stare at her as he struggled to orient himself.

Dean!

"DEAN!"

He just had a premonition of the solstice ritual. Those monsters were going to sacrifice his brother and six newborns!

On some level, Sam always knew the ritual would be atrocious. After all, it was meant to release the devil! But he made it a point not to speculate on the details. He didn't want to know. But now… He just witnessed it firsthand, and the thought of his brother at the demon's mercy made him panic. He had to prevent it!

Was that even possible? He wasn't able to prevent Jessica's death.

No, but when he foresaw Jacob attacking the Roadhouse, he was able to send help. Ellen, Jo, and Ash were all rescued. The future wasn't set in stone. He could change it. But he had to do something. Now!

Unfortunately, his strength was fading rapidly, and a moment later, he blacked out.

 **SPN**

 **(St. Mary's Convent)**

Dean could not remember the last time he was so uncomfortable. The chains were practically pulling his arms from their sockets, and after a few hours, it felt like torture. The solstice was over a week away. Did they plan to keep him like this the whole time? The thought made Dean groan.

After dragging in a table from somewhere else in the convent, Elizabeth had settled in the front pew of the sanctuary, where she opened the enormous Book of the Damned. She was obviously engrossed in the material, reading slowly and carefully while fiddling with her crystal. Since the demon disappeared to gather the missing ingredients for the ritual, she had not spoken a word, which gave Dean a chance to process his predicament.

He was a vessel, just like Sam.

What did that mean?

That meant, according to Jacob, he was destined to be an angel's meat suit. Specifically, an angel named Michael.

Oh, hell no. Dean was morally against possession of any nature—even angelic. Especially angelic. The world was plagued with evil. Ghosts. Demons. Witches. Stynes. But angels? No one Dean knew had ever crossed paths with an angel. As far as any hunter could tell, they weren't real. They were just stories told to make life easier. Right? If they actually existed, then where the hell were they? Where was their divine intervention? Where was God?

" _Angels are watching over us…"_

Those were the last words his mother ever said to him, and to this day, the memory filled him with bitterness. No they weren't. She was wrong. If angels were real, the only explanation was they simply didn't care, and Dean would rather die than suffer the company of one. Michael wasn't getting him. And Lucifer wasn't getting Sam. There had to be a way to stop all this.

But how? Dean was chained to a frigging altar! His joints were on fire, and after awhile, he was in desperate need of relief.

"Elizabeth," he grunted, despite his pride. "Would you cut me some slack here?" He rattled the chains to make his point. "Please?"

Without bothering to look up, she sneered at his request. "After the way you spoke to me? Calling me a whore, and ugly bitch? You're lucky I don't cut out your tongue."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Come on, Elizabeth." He tried to sound penitent. "You're working with the demon that killed my mom." At least that caught her attention. Her hand tightened around her crystal, and she reluctantly met his gaze. Encouraged, he continued. "Since I was four years old, my whole life has been about hunting that bastard. I couldn't just sit here passively while you read my palm on his behalf. I had to fight. I had to distract you. I was just trying to distract you. I didn't mean any of it, and I'm sorry."

His words tasted foul, but they seemed to mollify Elizabeth. She sighed, waving her hand, and abruptly, his chains eased up. His arms were still outstretched, but his joints were no longer locked, and his muscles were able to relax. Dean breathed deeply, savoring the reprieve, which he knew wouldn't last.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't go thanking me," she coolly replied. "And don't think for one moment you can sweet-talk me. I won't be manipulated, and I'm not changing my mind. So do yourself a favor and sit there quietly, or mark my words, I'll pull those chains even tighter than before. Got it?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I got it."

 **SPN**

When Sam woke up, he was lying in a hospital bed. Crap. It was dark outside, and according to the wall clock, it was five-fifteen in the morning. He had slept for more than eighteen hours! What the hell!?

True, he needed the rest, and he could already feel the difference. For the first time in days—weeks—he was replenished, at least physically, and the extra strength would be useful in the fight to come. But what about Dean? Where was he? Did the demon already have him, or was there still time to warn him? Sam had to do something!

Sitting up, he startled a young woman who was dozing on a chair in the corner. She jerked awake, staring at him in wide-eyed wonder. Recognizing her as the petite twenty-year-old redhead from the bus, Sam furrowed his brow. "What are you doing here?" For the sake of caution, he quickly scanned her mind, sensing fear, loneliness, kindness, and curiosity. No demons, and no animosity. She wasn't a threat.

"I…" She hesitated, unsure how to answer him. They didn't know each other, and she had no business following him from the bus to the hospital. "I just… I mean… Are you okay? Can I get you anything? Do you want me to call the nurse?"

"I want you to answer my question," he replied, a bit too harshly. Who the hell was she? Why would she take eighteen hours out of her life to watch over a stranger? That wasn't normal, was it?

Face pale, she nervously dropped her gaze. "I wanted to make sure you're okay. You looked like you could use a friend."

Sam cocked his head. "How do you know I'm not some wacko?" She couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds, and beneath her coat, she wore a blue T-shirt with the Wonder Woman logo. Did she have any idea how vulnerable that made her look?

"Oh, I've met my share of wackos," she assured him with a small smile. "Believe me, I know the signs." She timidly glanced back up at him. "When you collapsed on that bus, before the ambulance arrived, we searched your pockets, trying to find an ID or an emergency contact number on your phone. But you didn't have a phone. Or a wallet. Just cash, a knife, and a weird little pouch."

"And that didn't strike you as shady?" Sam asked, glancing around the room. Speaking of his stuff, where did they stash everything? He was in a hospital gown. Where did they leave his street clothes?

The girl shrugged. "You're obviously alone, and in trouble, and I've been there. I'm kind of in a transitional phase myself, and I thought, if I don't make sure you're okay, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering… What's your story? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I need to get out of here," he confessed, unable to hide the urgency in his voice. "I need to find my brother."

She bit her lip. "That sounds dire." Jumping out of her seat, she pulled open the bottom drawer of the bedside table, where she unearthed his belongings. "Everything's here except your knife. They sent that down to security."

"Figures…" Sam slid off the bed and grabbed his clothes. The girl discreetly turned around as he changed into his jeans. "I'm Sam, by the way."

"I'm Charlie," she called over her shoulder.

He was almost dressed when they were abruptly joined by a man in green scrubs. He was around Jacob's age, and Sam instinctively shied back.

"Where do you think you're going!? You're sick! You need to lie back down!"

The guy meant well, and Sam knew he could request an AMA form, but that would take too long. Dean was in danger, and he didn't have time to waste. "Stay away from me!"

His agitation caught the man off guard, and he stopped short, glancing from Sam to Charlie and back again. "Just take it easy. You don't have to be afraid."

Ignoring him, Sam tucked his coat under his arm and made a break for the door—luckily, the medic was cautious enough to get out of his way. Sam barreled into a pristine corridor where a handful of nurses were going about their morning routine. Several turned to stare at him, alarmed by his frenzied appearance.

"This way," Charlie said, catching up to him and grabbing his free hand. Together, they darted down the corridor toward the waiting room.

"Hey!"

"No running!"

"Come back!"

"Security!"

Before they reached the elevators, Charlie turned and led Sam through a door marked 'Stairs.' At this point, speed was their best strategy. If they were intercepted, Sam would be forced to answer some awkward questions or fight his way out. He would rather not assault anyone, so he ran as quickly as he could, and surprisingly, Charlie kept up.

At the bottom of the stairs, they entered a large, impressive lobby, which was virtually empty at that hour. Sam noticed a security guard at the far end of the room, where a coffee station was ready to greet early-morning visitors. Heart racing, Sam urged Charlie to sprint for the main entrance. The guard barely had time to yell at them before they were outside, facing a congested street and high-rise buildings.

"What now?" Charlie asked as they fled on foot.

Sam glanced down at her, surprised again by her assistance. What kind of life did she live? He didn't want to intrude on her private memories, but he could tell her past wasn't much happier than his. And yet, somehow, she remained innocent, generous, and brave.

He had to get away from her.

Before his enemies hurt her.

But first…

"I need to borrow your phone."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I wasn't planning to write Charlie into this story, but she insisted. She sprang on me with this whole backstory, but I won't delve too far into that. Must. Stay. Focused._

 _Gah! Plot Bunnies…_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	34. Long-Distance Calls

_**Author's Note:**_ _Just a quick reminder, according to "Pac-Man Fever" in season 8, Charlie's been living on the run since she was twleve. She's two years younger than Sam, so back in 2005, she would have been twenty. She's got a problem with authority, plus an adventurous spirit, and I just think, if she ever saw someone in trouble, she's the kind of person who would go out of her way to help. Anyway, she's just making a cameo. She wanted to say hi._

 _Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

 **(Indianapolis, Indiana … Saturday, December 12, 2005)**

By six-fifteen, Sam and Charlie were walking alongside the canal in White River State Park. The sun wouldn't rise for another ninety minutes, but their path was brightened by evenly-spaced light bollards and the city skyline. It was getting colder by the day, and as they breathed, wisps of smoke escaped their lips. It didn't bother Sam as much as it did Charlie—she was too thin for her own good, and her coat was hardly insulated. As she dug her phone out of her bag, her teeth were chattering.

"Just give me five or ten minutes, and I'll buy you a coffee," Sam promised, concerned she might freeze to death.

She smiled. "Thanks, but I don't swing that way."

He barely registered her remark, instead concentrating on the collection of numbers he had long since memorized. Who should he try first? Dean? When Charlie volunteered a surprisingly sophisticated pink device, Sam quickly called his brother's phone. It rang several times before shifting to voicemail, which left Sam with a terrible, sinking feeling. Where was Dean? Why wasn't he answering? What if it was too late?

No. He had to calm down. The solstice wasn't for another ten days. There was still time.

Next, he tried Bobby, and thankfully, the old hunter was more responsive. "What!?" he snapped after the second ring, much to Sam's relief.

"Hey Bobby—"

"SAM!?" He couldn't hide the worry from his voice, and Sam winced remorsefully. He should have called them sooner—but he didn't expect to be unconscious for over eighteen hours! "Sam, where are you? Are you okay?"

In the background, John exclaimed, "Let me talk to him!"

Sam braced himself for his father's wrath, but Bobby countered with, "You want him to hang up!?" A beat. Sam could picture the two men glaring at each other. Then, Bobby said, "All right, Sam, listen to me. Where are you?"

"Never mind that. Where's Dean? He's in trouble!"

"We know," Bobby assured him. "Which is why it's important you tell me, right now, where you are. Are you safe?"

Sam briefly scanned his surroundings. There were a few joggers nearby, but no one worth noting. "I'm fine! Where's Dean?"

"He went out looking for you, idjit! He was scared and pissed off and ready to break something, so he went alone. When he didn't come back, I found the Impala abandoned at a gas station. Sulfur everywhere. He was taken by demons."

' _He went out looking for you…'_

Sam flushed, swaying precariously as he grasped the implications. "It's my fault." Charlie reached out to steady him. "He was looking for me. It's my fault!" Sam burned with self-loathing.

"No, it's not your fault," Bobby protested. "It's no one's fault, and assigning blame won't get him back." He paused as something occurred to him. "How'd you know, anyway? About Dean?"

Sam glanced sideways at Charlie. He had to be careful with his words. She could only hear his side of the conversation, but she was clearly intrigued. "I saw him, Bobby. With Elizabeth, in a church."

"You saw them? Personally?"

Sam could hear the unspoken question. _You saw them, and you didn't lift a finger?_ "No, not personally."

"In a vision?"

"Yes."

"What else did you see?"

Sam hesitated. He couldn't exactly say 'a demonic ritual' in front of Charlie. "Look, it's bad, and she's going to hurt him, and she's going to hurt a lot of others too. We can't wait any longer. We have to do something. We have to stop her now."

"Well, you don't have to convince me, kid. Where are you? We need to work together."

"No…" Sam shook his head. "If I tell you, you'll tell my dad." Anxiety poured through his veins. If John caught up to him, he would still try locking him down, whether Dean was in danger or not. Sam couldn't risk it. He had to help his brother.

"Damn it, boy," Bobby groaned. "It's not safe being out there by yourself! If the demons can get your brother, they can sure as hell get you. Now please. Come back, and I promise, I'll make sure your dad leaves you alone."

"Give me that!" John said on the other end. Sam grimaced, listening to a short scuffle as the hunters vied for the phone. A moment later, his father was on the line. "Sammy? Listen to me. I'm sorry if I scared you. You have to know, I was only trying to protect you."

"You can't protect me," Sam whispered. "Not from this."

"Where are you?"

Sam could hear the panic in his voice. As much as they argued, they were still family, and they still loved each other. Sam would give his life for his father. But he wouldn't let the old man suffocate him—especially when Dean needed him. "D-Dad… I'm not coming back. I have to see this through."

"You can't win this fight on your own."

"Can't I?" Sam considered his father's warning. He was psychic now. He could channel the abilities of others, using their own powers against them—as he did with his mother—with Caroline. During their final confrontation in the Stynes' courtyard, he was able to negate her magic, which meant he might be able to negate Elizabeth's. He could potentially remove her single advantage! And as for the demon… He could try immobilizing him—as he did with Bela—to perform an exoricism. He could potentially send the bastard back to Hell! Potentially. If he was strong enough. But what choice did he have? If anything happened to Dean—not to mention those six babies—it would devastate him. He would never recover. He had to prevent it, at any cost.

"I'm sorry, dad," he whispered. "But I'm done waiting."

"Sam, for once, would you please just listen to me?"

There was no mistaking his distress—his desperation—which Sam found unsettling. It made him shiver. "Look… If you're that worried, then help me. Meet me at the church. But I swear to God, if you're not gonna back me on this, I'm going in without you."

"Sammy!"

He reluctantly ended the call. There was still so much he wanted to say, most of it angry. Did John have any idea what it felt like being trapped? Being a prisoner? All Sam ever wanted was his dad's trust—his faith—his confidence. But even now, John was set in his ways, treating Sam like a child. Less than a child! Like a victim. Maybe Sam was a victim, but he didn't need his dad pointing it out. He needed his dad to believe in him, to grant him some dignity. Was that too much to ask?

But some things shouldn't be said over the phone, especially in front of a stranger. Sam glanced down at Charlie, who met his gaze uncertainly. "Here," he said, returning the device.

"Thanks," she said nervously. "So, um… Would it be safe to assume there's a good reason you're not calling the police? I mean, if lives are really at stake?"

"They're not gonna take me seriously, and I can't waste time trying to reason with them."

"Story of my life," she grumbled knowingly. "If you're not adequately assimilated, they just can't be bothered. So what now?"

Her ears and nose were turning bright red, and her teeth were still chattering. Sam sighed. "Now I get you out of the cold."

 **SPN**

They took shelter inside a coffee shop, where Charlie insisted on buying her own drink—just to make sure Sam didn't get any 'ideas' about their acquaintanceship. As they sank into a pair of cozy seats in the corner of the room, Sam silently considered his next move. Dean was in a church, or a, or a… the word 'convent' popped in his head.

Yes, definitely a convent. And he was there now, with Elizabeth. Somehow, Sam knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt. Dean wasn't still in transit; he was already there. Sam could feel it. But there were convents all around the country, right? Where did he even begin looking?

Jacob…

Jacob had spent the last three to four days tracking the Book of the Damned—and likewise Elizabeth—with his magical compass. By now, he had to know where she was, right? He had to.

"So," Charlie said, cutting into his thoughts. "Can I get the scoop? Who's Elizabeth? And what's she doing with your brother?"

Sam tensed. Why hadn't he ditched her yet? If he wasn't careful, he might accidentally drag her in too deep, ruining her life in the process. She was just an innocent, unsuspecting young woman. She shouldn't be drawn into a nightmare like this, with no way out. She deserved better. "Charlie," he said gently. "Believe me, you don't want to get involved in this. I've got some very real, very dangerous enemies, and they're not gonna think twice about hurting you."

"Why?" Charlie asked, furrowing her brow in concern. "Who are you? What's this about?"

Sam shook his head. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to. Really. I appreciate everything you've done for me, and the only way I can thank you is by getting as far away from you as possible."

Charlie looked torn between prudence and curiosity, but happily, prudence triumphed. "All right, fine. But promise me one thing." She reached for her bag and extracted a pen along with an old copy of Frank Herbert's _Dune_. Tearing out the title page, she quickly scribbled down her name and email address. "Let me know when you find your brother. So I don't spend the rest of my life wondering. And if you ever need anything, like, computer-related, I'm your girl."

Sam smiled. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

 **SPN**

After they said goodbye, Sam left Charlie at the coffee shop and drifted through the streets of Indianapolis. Soon, he ventured into a public library and made his way towards the science section where he holed up at a quiet study carrel. He needed a safe place to attempt a long-distance telepathic conversation, but would rather not spend the money on a motel room. Hopefully, he could pull this off without astral projecting, which would save him a lot of energy.

Opening his mind, broadening his awareness, he searched for that insidious tether linking him to Jacob. It was a bad idea, encouraging their relationship, but he couldn't think of another way to find Dean.

 _Jacob,_ he called out, folding his arms on the desk and setting down his head. _Jacob, can you hear me?_

From hundreds of miles away, somewhere to the east, he sensed his brother pricking up his ears in surprise and delight. _Sam!_

He could sense his pleasure, his desire, his need. It was dark and relentless—John's tyranny was nothing compared to his obsession. Sam briefly backpedaled, feeling nauseous, but he had to remember, this was for Dean. And so he pressed on.

 _Jacob, have you found Elizabeth yet?_

His brother hesitated, apparently confused. _Yes… We tracked her to an abandoned convent in Ilchester, Maryland. Didn't John tell you? We're keeping an eye on her until the solstice, so we can dispatch her and Azazel at the same time._

 _Ilchester…_ Sam had never heard of the place. _All right, I'm coming._

 _Sam, wait!_

Unfortunately, it wasn't as easy to disconnect from Jacob as it was from John, and Sam lingered, against his better judgment.

 _Why are you reaching out to me?_ his brother demanded. He wasn't complaining, but he knew the Winchesters, and Sam would only come to him as a last resort. _Why are you circumventing your daddy?_

Daddy. Sam stiffened. Jacob would only acknowledge his real paternity if it meant gloating. Sam was voluntarily choosing to consult with a Styne over his own father, and Jacob considered that progress. But it wasn't progress! It was desperation!

He thought back to his premonition. He pictured Dean chained to an altar, struggling helplessly as Elizabeth and Azazel performed their ritual. The sight filled him with dread, making his chest constrict while his breath caught in his throat.

Jacob chuckled. _So… Dean's in trouble for a change._

Sam's heart stopped. He was never planning to divulge that information. Jacob would use it against him! But they were too closely intertwined for Sam to keep secrets, and sure enough, he could already sense Jacob's mouth watering.

Dean was chained to an altar!

He was vulnerable, hundreds of miles away from his family.

Right now, the only things standing between Jacob and his rival were Lilibet and the vampire.

He liked those odds.

No, no, no, no, no, no!

Sam panicked. _Jacob, please! Don't do this!_

Plus, if Lilibet required Dean for the ritual, killing him before the solstice would mean thwarting her plans. Win-win.

Tears filled Sam's eyes. _Jacob, I'm begging you! Please! Don't hurt him!_

 _Sorry, little brother,_ Jacob replied. _This opportunity's too good to pass up._

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	35. Death

**SPN**

 **(Ilchester, Maryland … Saturday, December 12, 2005)**

Sitting on thirty acres of land near an old mill town, surrounded by woods, St. Mary's Convent was notably secluded—which gave Jacob and the vampire plenty of cover as they staked out the place. The building itself was impressive. Four stories tall with two long wings flanking the 'corps de logis,' it was crowned with a stately cross. However, years of neglect had taken a hefty toll. The windows were boarded up, and the landscaping was overgrown. The stone walls were weathered, and the roof—with over two dozen dormers—was in need of repair.

Why would Elizabeth choose such a religious environment for the ritual? She wasn't remotely devout, and she instinctively avoided holy ground—as did all the Stynes. Jacob could only assume the convent had some special significance. They were contending with angels and demons, after all.

From the safety of the tree line, Jacob and the vampire silently observed the main entrance. No signs of movement; no signs of life. They might have questioned the reliability of the Stynes' compass, leading them to the middle of nowhere, but the vampire complained of an overwhelming sulfuric stench, which served as confirmation. They were definitely in the right place.

The only question now was, could Jacob storm the convent—trampling over the vampire and Lilibet, if necessary—to reach Dean? It was a definite possibility, as long as the yellow-eyed demon kept his distance. And why shouldn't he? From what Jacob understood, Azazel was always on the move, productive and hardworking. No rest for the wicked. They still had ten days before the solstice, and Jacob doubted the demon would spend that time lurking around here. He had better things to do.

Of course, there was no guarantee of that. For all Jacob knew, a whole army of demons could be inside those walls, protecting his cousin. If he attacked now, he'd be going in blind, and nothing was more reckless.

But Jacob wasn't thinking straight. The urgency Sam felt to rescue Dean had engulfed him in a wave of jealousy, and it took all his discipline to control his temper—he mustn't betray his intentions to the vampire. Not yet. He was currently unarmed, and for all his strength, for all his endurance, he had the disadvantage. But if he was smart, that could change at a moment's notice.

Affecting an anxious posture, he glanced over his shoulder, to the west. "Sam's on his way."

The vampire whipped his head around, eyes narrowed. "Come again?"

Jacob met his gaze steadily. "Sam and I just enjoyed a brief telepathic conversation. Apparently, after all those private phone calls you had with Mr. Winchester, checking in, making status reports, someone forgot to mention Sam's on the run, and Dean's been kidnapped."

The vampire snarled. He didn't deny anything, but he obviously preferred keeping Jacob in the dark on certain subjects.

Unfazed, Jacob nodded toward the convent. "Can you smell Dean in there? Sam had a vision of him chained to the side of the sanctuary altar."

The vampire hesitated, but then reluctantly took a deep breath. He grimaced. "All I smell is sulfur." He shifted his weight, apparently torn between helping his friend and maintaining his position. "If Dean's really trapped in there, we're not equipped to mount a rescue."

Jacob smirked sadistically. "Good. I hope they torture him." He paused, letting his words sink in, before adding, "Of course, when Sam arrives, he'll need some… gentle persuasion… to hold his horses. You know, he can be quite rash when Dean's in danger."

"Naturally," the vampire growled. "And you just had to tell him where we are, didn't you?"

Jacob shrugged. "I don't keep secrets from my loved ones. Unlike some people." It was starting to make sense. Sam must have called on Jacob for information because the hunters—his friends and family—were keeping him out of the loop. They weren't planning to bring him on this mission. They were rejecting him. At least, that's how Jacob chose to interpret it.

"How soon will the boy get here?" the vampire asked.

"Within the hour," Jacob lied, carefully applying pressure, and savoring how it alarmed his antagonist. "Shall we find some rope? I'd be happy to hogtie him for you, nice and tight—just like old times." The suggestive tone in his voice, plus the visual, had a powerful effect on the noble vampire. He bared his fangs, squaring off against Jacob and getting right in his face.

"You have any idea how hypocritical you are?"

"Not hypocritical," Jacob countered defensively. "Entitled. I'm a Styne, and the way I treat my belongings is my prerogative, but that's a privilege I share with no one."

The vampire fumed. "He's not a piece of property, and he's certainly not yours."

Jacob sneered. "Wrong again."

For a split second, he thought the vampire would erupt, and he braced himself for a fight. By now, the vampire was suitably perturbed, and liable to err. One misstep was all Jacob needed…

But then, refusing to be provoked, the stubborn bastard composed himself and backed away. (Not for the first time, Jacob wondered where the Winchesters found such a steadfast ally.) Putting some distance between himself and his charge, the vampire fished his phone from his pocket and dialed someone's number—most likely John's. After all, he had to alert the hunters of this new development and weigh their options.

Fine. If they weren't going to fight, Jacob could always resort to something less conventional.

Unlike his cousin, he was far from an accomplished spell-caster. The Stynes always had a strong appreciation for magic—it played an important role in their dynasty—but Jacob found it too intangible. He preferred solving problems physically, up close and personal. For him, it was all about making contact.

But that didn't mean he lacked the skill altogether. He knew some convenient little tricks—and the most useful was fading into the background, literally slipping outside the normal fields of perception. While his enemy was distracted, preoccupied with his phone call, Jacob discreetly vanished, and much to his satisfaction, the vampire didn't seem to notice.

 **SPN**

Dean wasn't sure what time it was, but judging by the position of the sun, his captivity was going on twenty-four hours. He wouldn't call it the worst experience of his life—it was better than Sam's abductions—but still, it was frustrating. His arms were painfully numb from being chained out to his sides, and the altar steps were cold, hard, and uncomfortable. To make things a thousand times worse, Elizabeth wouldn't let him use the restroom, and he couldn't hold it forever. Afterward, she was kind enough to cast a cleansing spell for him, but that didn't make it less humiliating.

Ten more days of this?

No. Just no.

He would literally take anything over this.

Presently, Elizabeth leaned back in her pew and groaned, rubbing her eyes. She had been poring over the Book of the Damned for hours now, not even stopping to sleep. From where Dean sat, she looked utterly exhausted, and if she passed out, it would serve her right. Unfortunately, she had the Styne family's endurance and wasn't likely to collapse, but Dean could always hope.

Standing up, the bitch shuffled over to her bag and procured a protein bar. "I suppose I should make a grocery run," she grumbled as she tore open the wrapper. Taking a large bite, she glanced in Dean's direction. "Are you hungry?"

"Go to hell," he retorted. Yes, he was starving—the last time he ate was on Thursday night—but he wasn't telling her that.

Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth stalked towards the altar. "Don't be a child." He squirmed as she knelt beside him, brushing her hand through his hair—her touch was oddly affectionate.

"What the hell!?" He tried jerking away, but the chains held fast.

"It's simple, really," she whispered, leaning in. "You can eat, or we can play." To make her point, she bit his ear.

He recoiled angrily. "You bitch! Save it for your boyfriend!"

"But Dean," she whined. "I need the practice." She straddled his legs, and offered him the protein bar. "So what'll it be?" She smiled sweetly while he shook his head.

"Is this how you bastards treated Sam?"

And just like that, her smile was gone. "I did everything I could to help Sam. I was nothing but kind to him."

Dean scoffed. "Oh yeah? So why the betrayal? What did he ever do to you!?"

"Call it a reality check," she snapped. "I realized good guys don't get happy endings. They get nothing but torment."

"That doesn't justify ending the world!"

"I don't care!" Elizabeth pushed away from him and started pacing, flustered and agitated. "I can either spend the rest of my life miserable and alone, or I can spend the apocalypse in the arms of my beloved, and die happy. What choice would you make?"

"Not that one!" he all but yelled. "Your happiness at the expense of the whole damn world? That has to be the most selfish, disgusting thing I've ever heard!"

Before she could answer, they were interrupted by the sound of distant footsteps striding towards the sanctuary. Dean stiffened while Elizabeth turned to face the open door, calm and confident.

"Are we expecting anyone?" Dean asked. If the demon was returning, he would just teleport, wouldn't he? So did that mean help was on its way? Or something much, much worse?

Unfazed, Elizabeth stood her ground—reminding Dean that she was far more powerful than she appeared—and a moment later, Jacob emerged through the shadowy threshold, alone and somber.

Dean's heart skipped a beat. "Son of a—!"

Where was Benny!?

He tried leaning over to peek around Jacob, to see into the corridor beyond him, but his chains didn't have enough slack. Damn it! He was stuck, he was helpless, and he was screwed.

"Hello, Lilibet," Jacob said in a gentle southern drawl. "I reckon we should talk." He turned to close the door, sealing the deadbolt into place.

"Careful, Jacob," Elizabeth replied frostily. "Mother's not here to bind my magic. For once, I'm stronger than you."

He faced her again. "Take it easy, love. I'm not locking us in. I'm being hounded by a vampire—courtesy of the Winchesters—and I'm locking him out. I don't want to be interrupted."

"Vampire?" Elizabeth sounded surprised. She glanced over her shoulder at Dean. "You're working with a vampire?"

He didn't answer; his attention was fixed on Jacob. The original plan was to wait for the solstice to strike Elizabeth and Azazel at the same time. They were both threats to Sam—especially the demon—and Jacob shared the Winchesters' eagerness to eliminate them. However, by exposing himself prematurely, he was forfeiting their best chance to gank the demon. Why?

Cause he hated Dean so much, he couldn't resist taking advantage of his vulnerability. He was here to kill his rival.

"Lilibet," he said tenderly. "I've been blind. Losing my daddy, Eldon, our whole family, I've been beside myself, and I took it out on you, and I'm sorry."

"You expect me to believe that?" Elizabeth asked resentfully. "After everything you said to me?"

"I was distraught," he explained. "But it's all so clear to me now. We've lost so much. Our wealth, our reputation, our kin. Cyrus left me, Sam wants nothing to do with me, and I'm alone. Now, you and I…? Yes, we hurt each other, betrayed, abandoned each other, and I thought we could never reconcile. But deep down, beneath all that pain, all that bitterness, you are still like a sister to me."

The whole speech felt contrived, but Elizabeth was wavering. Dean wanted to hurl.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding!" he anxiously protested. "Elizabeth, come on! You're not this stupid! He—!"

With a flick of her wrist, Elizabeth conjured a massive sock that filled Dean's mouth. He grunted, gagging at the filthy smell, and hastily tried pushing it out with his tongue. Damn thing didn't budge. It was magic, after all. Crap!

Jacob smiled softly, holding out his arms. "I miss you, love. I want us to be a family again. You're all I have."

Elizabeth hesitated. "What about Thomas?" she asked with a quiver in her voice. "I need him, Jacob. I need him."

"I know you do," he assured her, taking a small step forward. "I'll be honest. I don't much care for him. But he's certainly better than Victor, and if you need me to put up with him, I will. For your sake."

"MMMPPPHHH!" Dean howled through his gag, thrashing wildly against his chains. He had to do something! Jacob was obviously manipulating the bitch, telling her everything she wanted to hear, and she was caving! Honestly, how gullible could a person be? On the one hand, if Jacob stabbed her in the back, it would serve her right, but on the other… if anything happened to her, Dean would be defenseless. Where the hell was Benny!?

"Is this real?" she whispered as Jacob inched his way down the aisle. Dean broke out in a cold sweat. He couldn't believe how easy this was for the bastard.

"I love you, Lilibet." When Jacob reached his cousin, he wrapped her in his arms, and she succumbed to his embrace like a naive little girl. "Everything's gonna be okay." He gently stroked her hair. "I love you."

And with that, he grabbed her face and snapped her neck.

Dean froze, expecting no less, but still shocked.

Unaffected, Jacob dropped her body, and didn't even blink when her head struck the marble floor. No way she survived. "Oh, Lilibet," he said callously. "You should've left Sam alone."

In that moment, Dean realized—much to his horror—that whatever sick connection Jacob had with his brother… it was more powerful than blood.

Ever so slowly, their gazes met. Jacob's expression twisted angrily while Dean bit down on his gag, refusing to show fear.

"JACOB!"

At last, Benny arrived outside of the door, plowing against it with all his strength. Unfortunately, the whole convent was built like a stone fortress, and the door withstood the assault.

"JACOB, YOU COWARD!"

He banged furiously, but uselessly, and Jacob ignored him.

"Hello, Dean," he said, bearing down on his rival. Dean's breathing hitched as the bastard leaned over him. "I've been waiting a long time to snuff the life outta you."

Dean tried kicking him, but Jacob batted his legs down and sat on them with all his weight.

"Before you die, you should know, Sammy's mine. You hear me, Dean? He's mine. He means the world to me, and I won't let anyone stand between us."

Dean bucked with everything he had, his gag muffling a savage roar.

Jacob smiled, coiling his fingers around Dean's neck. He began to squeeze, and Dean knew—beyond the shadow of a doubt—that nothing could save him.

This was the end.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	36. Freedom

**SPN**

When Sam finally managed to concentrate enough to astral project over five hundred miles from the library in Indianapolis to the convent in Ilchester, the sight in front of him was even worse than he imagined. Elizabeth was dead, lying in a heap on the ground. Benny was locked outside the sanctuary door, attempting—ineffectively—to smash his way in. Dean was securely fastened to the side of the altar, and Jacob was sitting on top of him, strangling him.

Elizabeth was dead…

How could she be dead? Jacob loved her! He genuinely loved her, and Sam never thought for a moment he would actually hurt her. She was practically his little sister! If he could bring himself to murder Elizabeth—of all people!—he wouldn't hesitate to murder Dean, and nothing Sam said would change his mind.

Still, he had to try.

"Jacob!" He hightailed it over to the altar and knelt beside his brothers, trying to get their attention. "Jacob, stop!"

Dean's eyes were closed. His breathing was even further hampered by the sock stuffed in his mouth, and his face was contorted in a mixture of fear and pain. Sam doubted he was aware of anything apart from the hands on his neck.

Jacob, however, glanced sideways at him with a triumphant glint in his cold blue eyes. "Hey there, kiddo. I was starting to wonder if you would make it." The glee in his voice was gut-wrenching. "I'm glad you came. You need to watch this."

Sam tried not to look at Dean, focusing entirely on Jacob. "Please! Let him go!"

The son of a bitch chuckled. "Now this is starting to sound familiar. Why would I let him go, Sammy?" He squeezed even tighter. "We're better off without him."

Sam couldn't let his brother die. Not like this. Not today. He had to stop Jacob! But how? He was just an apparition! A spirit!

A ghost…

On rare occasions, when ghosts were particularly angry, they could possess living people.

Sam didn't know if he was angry—just terrified—but he was certainly desperate, and he would do anything to rescue Dean! Even if it meant blending himself with an obsessed monster.

"Let him go!"

Without hesitating, Sam launched himself at Jacob, diving into his body with a flash of silver light.

 **SPN**

"Dean…?"

Jacob's voice was soft, nebulous and… worried?

The sock was gently extracted from his mouth.

He could breathe.

The hell?

Confused, Dean opened his eyes and found Jacob looking back at him. In concern. What?

When the creepy bastard noticed Dean's improvement, he actually gave a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God!" Something was very different about his tone, his mannerisms, his whole posture, which Dean couldn't comprehend. "You're okay! I'm not going to let anything happen to you." He turned to examine the manacle on Dean's left wrist.

At a loss for words, Dean struggled to speak—his throat was incredibly sore. "…J-Jacob…?" He started coughing, much to his rival's alarm.

"No, Dean, it's me," he said when the coughing stopped. "It's Sam. I'm astral projecting, and somehow, I managed to possess Jacob's body. I'm gonna get you out of here. I promise."

Sam…? Possessing Jacob…? Was that even possible? It couldn't be possible! And yet, here they were. Instead of killing him, Jacob went back to fiddling with the manacle. He was trying to free him. Rescue him.

Meanwhile, outside the sanctuary, Benny was still pounding on the door, determined to break it down. Dean silently urged him to hurry as Jacob—Sam?—grew visibly upset.

"How the hell do these damn things open!? They don't have locks, or hinges, or anything!"

"Magic," Dean said, eliciting a moan from Jacob, who seemed close to panicking. Could he actually be telling the truth? One way to find out. "Sam… If that's really you… get the door… for Benny…"

Jacob froze, processing the request, but then, a heartbeat later, he nodded. "Yeah, okay!" He clambered to his feet and stumbled across the room. Dean watched nervously, tugging on his restraints, rattling the chains. Was this real? Was he dreaming? Or was he dead?

Suddenly, halfway to the door, Jacob whipped back around, flexing his muscles while turning red in the face—Dean cringed at the wild look in his eyes. "Oh, Sammy!" he exclaimed with a cruel laugh. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you? I love it!" He homed in on Dean, grinning. "Now, let's try this again. Let's wring his sorry neck."

As he marched towards the altar, Dean's blood ran cold. "SAM!" If his brother lost control of Jacob's body, he wouldn't just be forced to watch. He'd be forced to participate.

"NO!" Jacob stopped short, grimacing. "You stay AWAY from him!"

It was like watching someone with split personalities. Jacob clutched his head, took two steps forward, then toppled backwards, landing on the floor.

"Come on, little brother!" he yelled hoarsely. "You can't fight this! We're a part of each other now! Accept it!" He rolled to his knees and shook his head. "GO TO HELL!"

"Sammy…" Dean whispered, heart racing. This couldn't be happening!

"You wanted this, kiddo!" Jacob argued. "You came to me! You joined with me! You WILL submit to me!" Grasping the side of a pew bench, he pulled himself to his feet. "We can spend our lives together, Sam! You and I! Think of all we can accomplish together! Think of the dynasty we can build!" He trudged towards Dean. "It starts here…"

Now, more than ever, Dean had to fight. He couldn't let Jacob force Sam to kill him, so he renewed his efforts to tear his chains from the altar—but that only caused the manacles to bite into his wrists. "BENNY! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE NOW!"

Thankfully, the wooden door splintered—not enough for the vampire to reach his arm through, but he was certainly making progress. Jacob scowled, scanning his surroundings for a weapon to contend with the imminent threat. Benny could no longer be ignored.

Observing a tall candelabra tucked in a corner, Jacob set his jaw and crossed the room. He promptly snapped off the upper branches to create a long bronze shaft, which he carried back to Elizabeth's body. Sparing a glance at Dean, he plunged the tip through the corpse's chest. "Anyone ever tell you about dead man's blood? It's a bane to vampires."

Of course it was…

As Jacob found the perfect position to impale his enemy, Dean tried to shout a warning. "BE-BEN!" He started coughing—his throat had reached its limit.

No…

The door finally crashed open.

Benny stood in the threshold, brandishing a machete and baring his fangs.

Jacob lunged… and at the last possible second, he twisted, hurling the weapon in the wrong direction. As it clattered harmlessly to the floor, Benny attacked, aiming the machete for Jacob's neck. The bastard dodged, darting out of reach, and the next thing Dean knew, the two were engaged in a fearsome brawl.

It didn't last long. Jacob was pulling his punches, shaking feverishly, but somehow, he still managed to wrench Benny's arm behind his back and drive him to his knees, where he held him in submission. "I'm going to rip you apart, limb from limb," he growled. "NO!—Sammy, I'm only going to say this once!—LET HIM GO!"

Abruptly, Jacob released the vampire and backed away. Benny sprang to his feet, spinning around. Their gazes met. Every muscle in Jacob's body was rigid, he was sweating profusely, and his fists were clenched. "I've got him," he proclaimed, gritting his teeth. "But not for long… You have to hurry!"

Benny didn't hesitate. Adjusting his grip on the machete, he swiftly severed Jacob's head from his body, killing him in a single swipe.

Dean blinked.

Jacob's body hit the ground.

Everything grew silent.

It happened so quickly, so suddenly, Dean could hardly believe it.

Jacob was dead.

Benny tossed his blade on the floor. "Good riddance." He glanced over at Dean, observed his restraints, and hastened to his side. "Let's get you outta here." He grasped the left-hand chain and pulled, trying to yank it from the altar. It held fast.

Meanwhile, Dean glanced around the room, expecting to see—hoping to see—an apparition of his brother. "Sa…? Sa…?" His voice was ragged and pathetic.

"Don't talk," Benny advised him.

Dean whimpered. Aside from the vampire and two corpses, he was alone. His brother was gone.

If Jacob died with Sam's spirit inside him…

No. That shouldn't matter.

But what if it did? Sam wasn't technically a ghost. The normal rules might not apply. He could be hurt… Or… Or…

Dean felt tears prickling in his eyes.

" _SAM!?"_

 **SPN**

The sun had set by the time John arrived with Bobby and Rufus. Dean was still fastened to the altar—despite his supernatural strength, Benny was unable to break his chains. The wait was unbearable, especially with the stench of blood and death. Dean tried convincing the vampire to drag the corpses outside and burn them, but Benny refused to leave him unguarded for any length of time. Azazel might return.

Fortunately, he didn't. Thank God for small favors.

Just to be safe, when the three old hunters rushed into the sanctuary, they immediately lined the door and all the windows with salt. Only then did they direct their attention toward the prisoner.

"Dad, I'm sorry," Dean whispered as John knelt beside him. "I did everything I could."

"I know," his dad assured him, briefly cupping his face with his hand. "It's gonna be all right. I'm gonna get you out of here, and we're gonna find your brother." He spoke with such confidence that Dean believed him. He didn't know how—he didn't even know if Sam was still alive—but his dad was a hero, and when he put his mind to something, he never failed. Dean trusted him.

Climbing back to his feet, John produced the angel blade from inside his coat. "This better work," he grumbled. If the celestial weapon wasn't powerful enough, or holy enough, to dispel Elizabeth's magic, then nothing could—and Dean would be stuck here forever. It was a disconcerting possibility.

But when John brought the blade down on the chain, it shattered, dematerializing in a puff of smoke. Dean's arm dropped heavily to his side, and he grimaced at the sudden, painful movement. Stepping around him, John repeated the process with the other chain, and Dean was finally free. He tried to get up, but his body objected, and he sank back against the altar.

"Not so fast," John warned him, sheathing the blade. "You're hurt."

"Nah, I'm fine," Dean argued, but his arms were numb, and he couldn't stop his father from helping him to his feet. It was humiliating—Dean was a hunter, not a victim!—and his face flushed.

"I've got you," John whispered, drawing him in a tight embrace. "It's all right."

"The demon's still out there," Dean replied miserably. "We lost our chance to kill him, and it's all my fault."

"Don't give me that!" Slowly and carefully, John led him away from the altar. "We're alive, and the Stynes are dead. Take the win." He guided Dean to the front pew and made him sit. Then, he glanced over at Benny. "I can't thank you enough."

The vampire shrugged. "Don't thank me. The credit goes to Sam. From what I gather, he's the only reason I had time to bust through the door, and he's the only reason I wasn't poisoned the moment I walked in. He's one hell of a kid."

"Can you track his scent?" John asked.

"I reckon so. Once I get a breath of fresh air."

"Good. The sooner we find him, the better."

"You two go ahead," Bobby urged them. "Rufus and I will stay with Dean and tidy up all this crap." After all, they couldn't leave without torching the bodies and destroying the spell book—if that was even possible. Dean would only slow his father down, and he couldn't let anything distract the old man from his search.

"It's okay, dad," he said when John hesitated. "Go. Please. Sam needs you more than I do."

After a beat, his father nodded. "Be safe." Casting one final look at his friends and family, John motioned for Benny to follow, and made his way outside.

 **SPN**

 **(Indianapolis, Indiana … Sunday, December 13, 2005)**

When Sam woke up, his heart was heavy. He was back in the same hospital he had fled the previous morning, and this time, his wrists were cuffed to the bed rails. Apparently, while his spirit was hundreds of miles away, grappling with Jacob, his physical body was discovered by a concerned librarian who thought he was comatose. Naturally, she called 911, and now Sam was under the watchful supervision of a security guard and the nursing staff.

They didn't know who he was. They couldn't figure out what ailed him. And they were suspicious by his earlier escape. In their minds, he was a danger to himself, and possibly to others, so if he requested an AMA form, they weren't likely to comply.

He didn't care. He was too broken to care. Jacob was dead.

Why was that so upsetting? Sam hated Jacob beyond words. The son of a bitch was not his brother. He was a kidnapper, an abuser, a murderer, a monster. He was evil, and Sam hated him.

But in a way, he was still Sam's brother. They shared an emotional connection that couldn't be denied—however twisted and perverted it was. Over the past two months, there were times when Sam genuinely longed for Jacob's presence, for his protection. Now that he was gone, permanently, Sam's relief was tempered by loss. He mourned for Jacob, and he burned with shame. How could he mourn for Jacob? He _hated_ Jacob.

When his doctor came to check on him, Sam turned his head toward the wall. He didn't answer any of the man's questions—didn't even speak.

"We're just trying to help you, son," the man gently assured him, trying to coax him into cooperating. "Please. Let us help you."

"Thank you, Dr. Riley," came a familiar Cajun voice. "But we'll take it from here."

Startled, Sam whipped his head around, and there was Benny, standing in the doorway along with his dad.

"Who are you?" the doctor demanded as the security guard took a step forward.

"FBI," John said, flashing his badge. He focused on the guard. "A word?" They quickly withdrew from the room while Benny smiled at the doctor.

"If you don't mind, sir, I'd appreciate a moment with your patient. In private."

The man hesitated, reluctant to leave Sam, but curious to join the guard's conversation with John. "All right, but keep an eye on him. He's a flight risk."

"Oh, I know," Benny replied, stepping out of the way so the doctor could slip past him. Then, he closed the door, and glanced back at Sam. "You okay?"

Sam stared at him, silent and miserable.

Benny sighed. "I suppose not." He crossed over to the bed and gingerly removed the wrist cuffs. "I can't begin to understand what you're going through, boy. But you saved your brother's life, and you prevented the ritual. The pain you're feeling right now… You have to believe it ain't gonna last forever."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	37. Epilogue

**SPN**

 **(Indianapolis, Indiana … Sunday, December 13, 2005)**

John Winchester was not a patient or friendly man, especially when it came to his children, and when the hospital staff picked up on his smoldering belligerence, they didn't dare question his lies about national security. They simply got out of his way. Returning to his son's room, John found the boy still in bed, ignoring everything around him—including the vampire—with a vacant expression on his face. Knowing Sam, he was probably depressed, and John had a good idea why.

The Stynes were dead. The war was over, and by all rights, the hunters should be celebrating—it was a miracle they survived. The Stynes were stronger, wealthier, more sophisticated and influential. They had a whole dynasty behind them, and they should have crushed the Winchesters like vermin. But they didn't, and now they were gone. So much for their elitism.

Unfortunately, Sam was torn. The manipulative bastards practically brainwashed him with their damn mind games, and he would never celebrate their defeat. True, when it really mattered, he chose Dean over Jacob—thank God!—which meant he could still recover from all this—but he would never look back on it and smile. Some victories were just too painful.

Now, as John approached the bed, Sam visibly tensed and lowered his eyes. After their last conversation, he was understandably nervous, and John wasn't sure how to respond. His top priority was ushering Sam out of the hospital before attracting the wrong crowd, but if he was too emphatic—if Sam felt the least bit intimidated—he might sabotage whatever hope he had of reconciling. More than anything, he needed to stay calm.

"Sammy… where can I take you?" he asked as gently as possible. "Anywhere in the world. You ask, we'll go. I promise."

Sam could no longer mask his feelings, and John's chest tightened at the despair on his face.

"Would you take me to see Cyrus?"

Cyrus.

He should have known.

John sighed, running a hand through his short hair. He didn't appreciate the kinship between the two boys, and he never would. Their families were enemies. Cyrus was an orphan. Would he blame the Winchesters for the downfall of the Stynes? Maybe—which made him a threat, especially to Sam, who trusted him. Just to be safe, they should keep their distance.

But that's not what Sam wanted.

Or what he needed.

Right now, he needed consolation.

So John nodded. "Okay, kiddo. Let's hit the road."

 **SPN**

 **(Missouri … Sunday, December 13, 2005)**

Cyrus was officially eight years old. It was finally his birthday, and he felt nothing but loneliness and heartache. He didn't mention it to Pamela—how could he celebrate at a time like this?—but he wasn't experienced at keeping secrets from psychics, and the lady was perceptive. All too soon, they found themselves at a nice bakery where they bought some cake and hot chocolate.

"Here we go," Pamela said, leading him to a small table in the corner. She dug through her purse for a lighter and a single birthday candle. "I know it's not much, but it's the best I could do on short notice." She lit a small, tranquil flame. "There. Make a wish."

Cyrus frowned. "Why? Wishes don't come true. I'm alone in the world. My family's evil. Most of them are dead. Sam's gonna leave me to go demon hunting. We're never gonna see each other, and soon, he's gonna forget me." Jacob and Elizabeth could die, for all he cared. They were both bad guys, and they were never kind to him. Jacob in particular terrified him. But Sam… If Cyrus lost Sam, how would he survive?

"You're not going to lose Sam," Pamela assured him. "Sam loves you. He never would have left you if he thought he could protect you, and God knows he'll never forget you." She paused, but Cyrus didn't answer, so she tried again. "Listen to me, kid. I'll be straight with you. This next year's gonna suck. Lives have been lost, and nothing's ever gonna be the same again. That's war. But you are not alone, and with Sam on your side, you're gonna be smarter, stronger, and a hell of a lot braver than the rest of your family—combined! Years from now, the Styne name will mean something very different than it does today, because of you. I guarantee it."

Cyrus sniffled. "My stomach hurts."

Pamela edged around the table and held him in her arms. "I know, Cy. I know."

 **SPN**

Later that night, John pulled up in his truck with Sam. As soon as she sensed them, Pamela told Cyrus, who ran outside to greet them. When Sam descended from the passenger seat, he sank to his knees and anxiously embraced the boy, whispering an anguished apology.

Since John remained in the truck, watching through the window, Pamela made her way around the boys and climbed in next to him, pulling the door shut. She immediately felt the old man's tension—he didn't trust Cyrus, and he hated to see his son in pain. Nothing she said would comfort him, so why bother? Besides, they had business to discuss. "So where are the others?"

John grunted. "Dean's on his way with Rufus. They should be here in a couple hours. The vampire left to rendezvous with Bobby. I don't know whether or not they can destroy the Book of the Damned—it was apparently fire resistant—but they're going to try."

"That should keep them busy," Pamela supposed. "For awhile, anyway."

John nodded.

After a beat, Pamela said, "The demon's still out there."

"And we still have the angel blade. If he tries again, we'll be ready."

"What about Cyrus? He can't stay with me. Babysitting's one thing, but I am not mother material."

John shrugged. "Well, he can't stay with us. I won't allow it."

"Of course not," she said pointedly. "Hunting's no life for children."

John grimaced at the jab. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," she replied. "But I'll tell you one thing. That demon you hate so much has already made up his mind about your son's destiny. If you want Sam to believe for a second that he has a choice in the matter, don't you dare make up your mind about Cyrus. Okay?"

John was silent.

Outside, it began to snow.

 **SPN**

When Dean and Rufus arrived, Cyrus was sleeping soundly on the couch while John and Pamela shared a drink in the kitchen. Sam was nowhere to be seen, having sought refuge in the upstairs guest room where he was allowed some privacy to grieve. They might have won the battle—saving the world in the process—but now came the real challenge. Coping. How the hell were they going to cope with all they suffered?

As Rufus regrouped with John and Pamela, Dean went in search of his little brother. He wasn't sure what he would say to him—words were insufficient—but he had to see for himself that Sam was safe—that he wasn't crippled by Jacob's death. After all, he had a front-row seat—literally! What if there were repercussions?

"Sammy?"

Sure enough, when Dean pushed open the guest room door, he found his brother curled up on the bed with his arms wrapped around his legs, and tears brimming in his eyes. It wasn't fair. How could Jacob still have such influence over him? Was it really too much to ask for his death to break their crappy bond?

But life was never that simple—especially for Winchesters.

"Hey there, kiddo…" Dean made his way over to the bed and sat down. After a long, drawn-out moment, he offered the only comfort he could think of. "I'm gonna get you through this. I don't know how… but I swear to God, I'll do whatever it takes. I promise."

 **SPN**

 **(Palo Alto, California … Friday, December 25, 2005)**

Two weeks later, on a cold but sunny afternoon, John and Dean meandered through an immaculate cemetery while Sam spent a few lonely minutes at Jessica's grave. He wasn't able to attend her funeral, and hoped to make up for it today with a nice suit and colorful flowers. Dean wasn't sure what difference it would make, but as long as it helped Sam heal, he didn't have to understand.

"Did you ever visit mom's headstone?" he presently asked his father, attempting to keep his voice casual.

"All the time," John replied. "At least, till we left town."

"I don't remember that."

John shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. "Have you heard from Rufus?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah. Bobby's on his way back with Benny."

Since they weren't able to destroy the Book of the Damned, their next option was to hide it. Dean had no idea where—they didn't tell anyone—but from the sound of it, they were both satisfied with their solution.

"And what about Cyrus?" John asked stiffly.

It was Dean's turn to shrug. "The kid's from Louisiana. Rufus lives in Vermont. He's freezing, but he'll survive."

John hesitated, but when he finally nodded, Dean could tell he was coming around. "That's good."

Eventually, they returned to the street where they parked their vehicles. Climbing into the bed of John's truck, they sat and patiently waited for Sam. The kid was struggling—there was no denying that—and he would continue to struggle for the foreseeable future. It sucked, but it couldn't be helped. At least he had his family—his real family—watching out for him. The pain would come and go, but Dean would stand by him forever.

And that was all that mattered.

 _ **THE END!**_

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Thank you all so much for your amazing support. This story was a thrill to write, and I hate bringing it to a close. Unfortunately, it felt like time. I love you all, I hope I was able to meet your expectations, and as always, I look forward to your comments._

 _ **Please Review!**_


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